


The Wendigo

by LearnToShareFeanor



Series: Glorestor Drabbles [10]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Although that could've been funny, And you can't tell me otherwise, Arranged Marriage, Erestor is friends with dwarves, Every hero has a dark side, Glorfindel coming to terms with the hand he's been dealt, Glorfindel's is just really hungry, Grinding Ice, Helcaraxë, Hypnotism by Wendigo, Laurefindel isn't an OC. It's Glorfindel's old name from before Gondolin and his rebirth, Multi, Native American Mythology - Freeform, Non con main archive warning not used because it does not involve sexuality. Just cannibalism., Some non-sexual non-con elements, Sort of AU, Suicidal Thoughts, The Wendigo - Freeform, The grinding is sort of a frozen Oregon trail but worse because there are Wendigo, Three brothers and a cousin who will NOT STOP ARGUING, Trigger warning: mutilation. Cannibalism. Mutilation. Starvation. Eaten alive, Violence, Well you can but I would ignore you, fire everywhere, more just making the most of a bad situation, sort of a happy ending, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnToShareFeanor/pseuds/LearnToShareFeanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the Wendigo is a familiar one from the First Age. Elrond has always thought it was a myth- something to explain disappearances by those who crossed the Helcaraxe. Never has he been more wrong, and with potentially deadly consequences. A war is being waged; and a family who preys together, stays together. </p><p>A story of action, adventure, and the depths of what a person will do to survive.</p><p>(This is a multi-chapter fic, and it will be updated monthly. Please DO NOT read if you are triggered by any of the following things: Cannibalism, mutilation of corpses, starvation, violence, or a character being eaten alive. Trigger warnings in chapter notes of each chapter. PLEASE let me know if you are triggered by anything in the chapter that isn't in the tags so that I can add it. The last thing that I want is to hurt someone. )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you go out to the woods today....

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story is inspired by a creature of Native American Mythology. It is a very gory and violent myth, so this story is going to be very gory and violent. There is some romance in later chapters, but if you're looking for a fluffy little romance, look elsewhere (btw, I have Courting Mishaps and a Midsummer Night's Dance up and completed).
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I will be informing you of bits and pieces of the Wendigo mythology throughout the story, but don't hesitate to ask any questions or give constructive criticism. I love to hear from you guys and gals! 
> 
> The name Barad was chosen for two reasons. According to elfdict, in Sindarin, it is tower, fortress, or threshold. In Noldorin, it means doomed.

          Glorfindel smiled as he beheld the bright, lush valley of Imladris. He'd been on a short patrol, only a week, but it was always good to be home.  _Home._ After so long, he'd doubted that he'd ever find a place that was truly home for him. And yet, he had; a quiet little valley with bustling people in and out. The entire valley was built around the Bruinen. Imladris' city, made of whitewashed limestone and white rock, stood proud and beautiful on one side, taking advantage of the scenic waterfalls, whilst a few scattered villages and farms which fed the valley and even offered up trade took the other.

            The patrol rode down the hill, finally meeting up with Elrond and his chief high counselor,  an elf by the name of Barad. They were greeted cheerfully, though Elrond seemed worried about something. Once stablehands took the horses, and he had healers take care of the few minor wounds- only one, actually, and that was caused by the elf in question showing off and falling from a tree, which he would _never_ live down- he followed Elrond and Barad to the Lord's office. 

            "Captain." Barad stated perfunctorily, pulling out a letter, "I know you have only just returned home, but I regret to say we have a mission for you." 

           Glorfindel nodded and took his customary seat by the window. Elrond sat at his desk, whilst Barad lounged against a bookcase. "What can I do for you?" He asked pleasantly. Generally, his 'missions' were composed mainly of rescuing small furry animals from trees, giving the guards from Lorien or the Greenwood some extra training if they visited, or punishing some guards who thought it would be funny to do something stupid while drunk. 

           Elrond and Barad shared a look, and he knew immediately that this was not the case. Barad handed him the letter, and Elrond explained it as he read. "As you know, we are a few weeks away from Bree. Normally, they would not affect us, but when we have reports of mass disappearances, corpses being dug up, and people being stolen from bloody and broken beds, we get nervous. It seems there may be a bandit or orc presence in the town, and we need to get rid of it before it reaches Imladris." He allowed Glorfindel a moment to finish reading. "Get your best soldiers ready and armed. You'll leave the day after tomorrow to Bree. The mayor knows you're coming, and will take care of housing you and our warriors. You will need provisions- apparently many of the farmers are missing or dead."

           He frowned, worriedly, and Barad spoke up. "I've taken the liberty of ordering Lembas. And," at this he shot a look at Elrond, "although  _some_ people think it is useless, one of the spell-weaving women will be blessing your horses." 

           Glorfindel agreed to go, and allowed his thoughts to wander as he listened to the familiar argument between Elrond and Barad. The latter elf was very superstitious, which many of the Silvan elves were, whilst Elrond was decidedly not. That, of course, was rather ironic seeing as the Lord could control the weather, read unguarded thoughts, and occasionally see into the future.  He soon dismissed himself to visit the barracks. 


	2. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wendigo is a nocturnal creature that prefers human flesh to all other forms of sustenance. Some Algonquian peoples state that it can jump as high as it stands- a full 15 feet in many cases- and that it gains the strength of every person it devours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter two is here, and we begin to see what's happening in Bree. Most of this is pre-written, so I'll be able to update at least once every week or two. 
> 
> Maen: Clever, according to elfdict. Sindarin  
> Goheno Nin: I'm sorry. Sindarin. Arwen-Undomiel.com
> 
> Please read and review, and let me know what you think! This is a very dark story, and any romance will not start for a few chapters. Warnings for this chapter: Reference to cannibalism, reference to amnesia, reference to the killing and/or kidnapping of children, violence. If you see something in this chapter that triggers you but isn't in the list above, please let me know so that I can add it. I don't want to hurt anyone if I can help it, and this is a very violent story.

                At high noon, Glorfindel and his men reached the outskirts of Bree. What they found there put them on edge. They rode past fields long overgrown, dried out bones of livestock, houses with broken shutters and doors swinging off of their hinges. There was no smoke issuing forth from chimneys, and the manlings- _children,_ he corrected himself- who normally would have been cheerfully running about the horses hooves for attention from these new and beautiful strangers were absent. No animals except for a lone cat and birds still lived there. Though their ride was long and tiring, the group decided to make haste into town; none wanted any unnecessary risks, and to enter a place so obviously haunted by evil seemed to tempt fate.

                Once they entered the town proper at nightfall, they found life and light once more. Still, the normally busy and loud streets were strangely empty, and the people there looked upon them with obvious distrust. The gates of Bree were closed behind them, and one of the Dunedain, whom they met upon the Great Road, spoke up. “My Lord, these gates were of simple wood the last time we were here. They are now of wood and iron, and guarded by more than one gatekeeper.”

                This finding spoke much to them about the lives of the populace, and he nodded in thanks. The Dunedain had indeed proven their worth, pointing out tracks that many of the other elves would have missed- including some very strange ones with claws which were everywhere where people were now missing. A memory from before his death scratched at Glorfindel’s mind; a warning, perhaps. He could not remember now what it was, but he _knew_ he’d seen them before, long ago. The memory brought with it ice and snow, and he tried desperately to tamp it down. He remembered enough of the Grinding Ice- the death and destruction it had brought. Their people had been travelling over the ice bridge for over a year, starving and cold, many dying from cracks in the ice or the terrible blizzards. There had been something else as well on the Ice with them, but yet again, his memory proved faulty. Still, he was confident that if it was truly important, he would remember it when the time came to do so.

                Once they arrive at a large building in the center of town, a man in a brown and red velvet doublet and tunic greeted them and introduced himself as the mayor. The horses were taken by footmen, and Glorfindel sent some of his own men with them to make sure they were cared for well. The Dunedain refused assistance, and went to brush, feed, and water their horses themselves. The mayor, a fellow named Arnold, gave them news about the town. “Things were bad enough by the time we sent news to some of the surrounding settlements,” he began, “what with all the missing animals and farmers. But they’ve gotten worse. A few children were taken from right under our noses yesterday, and no one knows where they are!”

                “Has anyone found any marks, such as tracks or signs of large animals passing?” Glorfindel asked.

                “No, my Lord, there’s nothing on the ground, and there’s no way an animal could hop onto the walls from the ground and get back over the same way with little ‘uns in tow.”

                His second in command, a Sindarin elf named Maen, nodded but seemed unconvinced. He discussed further plans with the mayor, and was unsurprised when the younger elf asked to speak with him privately. Once in a small alcove, the two spoke in Sindarin instead of the common tongue, and he gathered Maen did not want to be overheard. “Goheno nin, but I must disagree with the human lord. There are many creatures which could do such a thing, especially the most clever of goblins. And if there are no tracks on the ground, it means only one of the townsfolk could have left with the manlings.”

                He nodded. “Take some of our quieter folk with you, and take a look at the walls. I want to know if there are any claw marks at the very top that may have been ignored, or if there is evidence of ropes or chains.”

                The elf bowed, one fist over his heart and went to do as his captain had bid. Glorfindel worried his lip. There had been something- something else that could do this. Something that could jump higher than an elf, silent as an owl on the wing. He _knew_ it! If only he could remember. He resolved to dig through his memories of the Grinding Ice tonight when his men lay down to rest. Perhaps there was some long-forgotten creature involved.

                A young maid in a slightly dirty dress tapped him on the shoulder nervously, and stood looking at her feet to tell him that rooms had been made ready in the Inn of the Prancing Pony for him and his men. Gratefully, for they had not stopped longer than necessary to water or rest the horses for the last two days, he thanked her and went to find his men.

                While they were enjoying the dinner meal- a hearty beef stew with onions, potatoes, carrots, and some strange human beverage called _beer_ \- Maen returned to him in a panic, one of the Dunedain wounded over his shoulder. Quickly, he forced them to sit down and called for a healer, demanding the story.

                According to Maen and the wounded man, they had been doing as Glorfindel had bid, and found evidence of deep rents in the top of the walls and some of the surrounding roofs. They’d heard a strange noise- something almost like a chittering fox, wounded dog, and human cry, all mixed up. Two of the Dunedain and one of their party went to investigate it, and when they did not come back, Maen and the injured man leapt from the walls to seek them.

                They never saw what attacked them. But they did see the opening of a cave, with beasts with shining red eyes staring at them, feeding on the bodies of the fallen men and elf. And then, one of the creatures attacked. They were lucky to leave with their lives; of the five who went to investigate, only two returned, and the wounded one, the healer was sorry to say, looked as if he would not survive till the next night. One of the farmers, who was listening in, revealed that _every_ night attack ended like that, or in a similar manner. A few would go to see what was making strange noises, none or only one or two would return. The wounds were usually infected terribly, and so they usually did not live very long.

                Glorfindel went immediately to ‘correct’ the mayor’s oversight. It had cost them four men, one of whom was a close personal friend. Without further ado, the elves began questioning the honest folk- farmers, the innkeeper, tailors- those who knew what had been happening but were simply too frightened to speak of it to strangers. Now, the elves reflected bitterly, the people were more than happy to speak with them. After all, they had lost people too.

                What they had discovered, when Glorfindel returned with a bloody fist, was that the creatures refused to attack during daylight unless one went into one of the abandoned farmhouses or caves, and that they attacked without pity or mercy. They preferred defenseless prey, such as the sick, very old, or young, but if a brave man raised his blade to them, they would not hesitate to kill him as well. They seemed to prefer people to animals; cows would often be left unharmed in their fields while a stable boy would be found half-eaten.

                He spoke to Maen privately after getting the rest of their men settled, with watches set for every two hours, and the elf agreed. Glorfindel would need to remember what happened on the Grinding Ice. If it could at all help them, it should be done now, even if it caused discomfort. It might be the difference between life and death for others. And so, in the dark, lit only by the light of a single lamp, Glorfindel stayed awake the entire night and most of the following day. And he remembered. 


	3. You are what you eat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing that is noticed about a Wendigo- and often the only warning one receives before it attacks- is its' smell. It stinks of decay and death, and every breath is a hiss, if it isn't trying to persuade its' victim that it is still human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: 2.15.16. Changed 'still' to 'steel' because "our still will do little..." made no sense.
> 
> A/N: Translations: Hráva means wild/untamed in Quenya, courtesy of elfdict.  
> Laurefindel- Glorfindel's original name.
> 
> About the timing: Below is a link to one of the sites that I used to figure out the timing, and the quote that I am using to base it off of.  
> “Valarian years are around 9.5 - 10 years, and if it is from VT 2998-3000 - that would mean 20 years of the Sun”  
> http://www.lotrplaza.com/archives/index.php?Archive=Second%20Age&TID=219606
> 
> As always, please read and review!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Some violence, heavy references to starvation, suicidal thoughts, and there is cannibalism.

            It was not long before Glorfindel awoke; he had somehow fallen asleep despite the terrors that threatened to rip the very fabric of his mind apart. He had indeed remembered, but he felt no joy at the new memories. Snow clouds his memories, but still they are as sharp as ice and as painfull as a Balrog's whip. He avoids his men the best he can, but it is difficult to do so in such close quarters. Maen is careful to keep them busy sharpening their blades, caring for their steeds, and beginning the mourning rites. The small room he is in feels almost like a cave; no candles have been lit, the door is shut, and both shutters and curtains cover the window in the east side of the room. He hates himself for the comfort he finds in it, hates the fact that when he died, he was not quite- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

            The noise startles him from his maudlin thoughts, and he finds himself grateful. At least, until he hears the voice on the other side- that of a child. How children would comfort him in Imladris! They were reminders that not all hope was lost, and their eyes were full of such wonder and joy. They brought no comfort here, only the stiff and unforgiving reminder that he was almost- almost not Elven. Despite this, he calls for the child to enter. There is no reason for the manling to be out in the hall when she could be inside, safe, with him to guard her. ' _But how safe is the little one anyway?'_ An insidious voice whispers from the back of his head. He knows this voice. It is one that he heard many times when he was alive, and he finds himself wishing Namo had completely removed his memories.

            The little one comes in, clutching a small doll to her chest. He notices with amusement that its' tiny yellow frock matches the girls own, almost exactly. Without much of a worry, it seems, she runs directly to him, climbing into his lap without so much as a 'by your leave'. The sight of something so- so  _innocent_  is enough to make him laugh and chase the darkness from his heart, at least for now. "Tell me little one," he begins gently, "what has you coming here instead of to the side of your mother?"

            This was the wrong thing to ask- she sobs into his chest, and he finds himself rocking her back and forth as he has seen many Elven mothers do, whispering soothing things, not in the Common Tongue nor in the popular Sindarin, but in the ancient High Quenya he is so familiar with. The tears stop soon, and his brief good mood is erased. The manling -' _child'_ , he corrects himself- has no parents. Not anymore. Not since the monsters came.

            He wonders why she has sought him out, and asks her as much. "I saw you," she whimpers, in that peculiar and yet adorable lisp that some young ones have, "in a dream. You killed them."

            He does not ask how she recognized him from a dream, or anything else that the adults taking care of her certainly would have. Unlike a human, he has good faith in the Valar, and the concept of Ulmo sending the little one a dream is a familiar one to him. He does, however, ask her to tell him about it. When she snuggles closer, begging him not to ask her, dread grows. Had the little one seen him die after he slew the 'monster'? Would this be a Balrog all over again?

            "I must know, pen neth, what you saw." He explains what he hopes is a kindly voice. "It may hurt, but if I do not know what happened, how can I make sure the monster goes away?" This is a dirty trick- the kind of thing that he's seen Barad use on his children more times than he can count. It always works for his friend, and the tactic does not fail him now, though he is no parent himself.

            The little one squeezes her doll tighter, as he in turn holds her; and, haltingly, she speaks. She tells him of a cave, much like one of the many that the locals have described- only this one, she says, is not on the main path like the others. It is hidden, so that if you are not very careful, you might walk right by it. Maen had told him that as well- that they had seen several caves, and that it was only by tripping over an exposed root that they saw that gaping maw of earth, filled with moving, living, hungry teeth. She tells him of old bones on the floor, and chambers within chambers underneath it- and that some of the bones aren't so old after all. Some, she says, are still recognizable.

            Just like the body of her mother- even in death, the child can recognize the necklace of beads, bird feathers, and assorted things that only a child might think is fashionable.

            And she tells him then of cages; small ones, like one would use to hold animals the size of goats or a little larger. And the missing children, she says, are still in there. At least for now. And there is one of the monsters (she cannot stand to describe them any more deeply than 'big', 'scary', or 'evil') fighting with the others, keeping the children alive. She says that she saw him, then, and it is at that moment her dream turns from vivid reality, almost as if she is standing right behind the Elven lord as he enters the cave, to the symbolical half-dream many seers use to create prophecies. What he is most frightened of, they are too. And the light of their blades are more dull than the shiny things on the horses' harnesses- they fear the harnesses more than the blades. And there are arrows everywhere.

            After delivering her message, the traumatized young one falls into the human version of reverie, eyes closed, still holding onto her doll. And Glorfindel finally leaves his room, a new determination filling him. He made mistakes in his last life, to be true, but that does not mean this life has to be the same. He can remember now, and this is not the Grinding Ice, he reminds himself. They are no longer exposed, without the mercy of sunlight or moonlight, with only steadily weakening bodies as their defense. And thanks to this child, he knows what they fear most in this world.

            Fire.

            Maen sees him, sees the change that has come over him, and appears to quail for just a moment before his loyalty to his captain takes over. "My Lord," he begins, sending him a questioning glance at the sight of the sleeping child, "Do you have orders for us?"

            The other elves, and the Dunedain who speak Sindarin, are instantly silent. "Aye, Maen. We have a seer in our midst." He gently lays the manling on a pile of blankets. "The other children are still alive! There are no less than five of the beasts, but there may be more. They fear fire, but our steel will do little but anger them." He turns to one of the other elves, and barks out a command. "They fear silver as much as fire. Get the silver from the harnesses- as much as you can. Spare no thought to the damage you may cause them! They can be repaired back home, when we have done our duty."

            The elves and Dunedain speak excitedly to one another as several go to the barn to see to the horses. "Those of you with a bow or the ability to use them: get your weapons strung! We will have use of them tonight." All of the remaining Dunedain and most of the elves remaining hurry to do his bidding. There are only eight remaining elves, and this time he speaks in the Common Tongue.

            "Does anyone know how to make pitch? For arrows?" A young boy and his father, who make and repair boats for fishing step forward. Once the elves and Dunedain return, he speaks his plan. Normally, he would like to go after the beasts at night- but these are no ordinary beasts, and he will take full advantage of the night for rest. And to prepare.

 

            "Captain?" Maen asks, and his eyes are inadvertently drawn to the smaller figure.

            "Yes?" He returns curiously.

            "May I speak with you privately?"

            If this had been Gondolin, he would have refused. A soldier was only to ask for a private audience when he and his superior were, indeed, alone. But this was _not_ Gondolin, as he had to continuously remind himself. His new- or were they old?- memories were confusing him, forcing him to compare the people he knew now with the people he knew then. Still, he reminded himself that Maen had never led him wrong before. The only elves more wise that he knew of were Artanis, Elrond, and Barad. And so he nodded, gesturing towards the stairs. Maen followed him to his room and the slight elf made himself comfortable on his bed. "What is it you wish to speak about, mellon nin?"

            "Some darkness troubles you. You know now what they fear- will you tell me what they are? Nothing is more terrible than an enemy unknown.”

            He debates what to tell the other elf for just a moment, and then speaks. “This is to remain between you and I alone, understand? You may tell the men that they are evil creatures which can be slain by fire or silver. But you will tell them nothing else of what I am about to say.”

            Maen looks about nervously, and he is pleased. Perhaps the young one shall not agree, and he can escape this. But Maen, ever clever and ever loyal Maen does, shakily and with wide eyes. He also goes to shut the door before sitting once more upon the bed. Glorfindel sighs, hopes dashed, and sits down on the coverlet beside him. “How much do you know about the crossing of the Grinding Ice from Valinor to Arda?”

            He is a warrior, not a scholar, and so he knows very little and confesses as much. Glorfindel nods. “Then I bid you not to speak, not even to ask questions, until I have finished. If interrupted, it may be too difficult to continue.”

            Once again, the Silvan elf agrees.

                “Very well. Then listen, young one, and learn from my mistakes- mistakes that none who now live and remember care to speak of.” And Glorfindel speaks.

                The host of Fingolfin needed to cross into Arda, but thanks to Feanor, there were no ships. They spent nigh two years searching for a place to cross- _any_ place except for the Helcaraxe. Their search is in vain. Once they know exactly what they shall be doing, the gathered host prepares; elves carry well-nigh three times their weight in food, and they purchase, barter, or steal horses to carry still more. It is on the first night with stars unclouded that they step upon the Grinding Ice- and their doom. It is thought that this trip would last only a few weeks at most; no one guesses that it would be longer than a decade. Still, they ration their food supply, and it is only after they have already started that they think to bring extra blankets or cloaks. Elves do not normally feel the cold, but the Helcaraxe is a frozen hell-scape, and it is too late already for them to turn around.

                Within a few weeks, they have killed and eaten their horses, oxen, and dogs. It is cruel to let them starve to death, and there is nothing for them there to eat; besides, the more they eat in the way of the animals, the less they have to worry about sharing. A few months later, the first elven deaths begin. Most are simply claimed by the cold, though some go hungry. Any remaining food and cloaks are spread around the survivors, and they continue on. A blessing! On the day that marks the first year of their passage, there is a herd of strange deer-like creature, feeding on pieces of ice grass and moss. The entire herd is slaughtered, and the bodies dragged behind the host to be eaten later.

                The group of Vanyar, once so cheerful and clad in shining armor, is no longer cheerful. In many cases, armor has been shed, for the metal is painful and deadly in the cold. They have lost any semblance they once had of fat, product of the easy living in Valinor. Only the muscles of the legs are decently strong anymore. All else is weak, tight and wiry. One or two die every few weeks now. After the cloaks and tiny scraps of food are given away, they do not much consider what happens to the bodies. But there are some elves who do not go quite as hungry. They linger a day or two behind, using knives or teeth to tear into what little remains of muscle and skin; internal organs, eyes- all that is left when they are finished are bite-scarred bones, most of which have been broken to get into the marrow. This small group of elves does not go quite as hungry as the rest.

                Ten years. The numbers of the dead increase drastically, but the numbers of the flesh-eaters increase only a little. A few elves die when they purposely crack the ice to get at the fish and large water-beasts underneath, but for a months, they eat well. Once more, they are careful to ration it. And the cloaks of the fallen, sometimes still dripping in water, find their way to the tents or bedrolls of their surviving families. No one asks _what_ , exactly pulled the corpses from the water. No one asks where the bodies are now. They already know.

                Nineteen years. The creatures have a name now- the Wendigo. The name is chosen, not for any special meaning in their language, but for the sound that they make when they hunt and eat. First, there is only the wind. Then there is a sharp crack, and ‘ _go’_ or ‘ _gol’_ sound when they swallow down flesh too quickly. They no longer look or act like elves. Within the last few years, the dead have not become enough. They go, now, for the sleeping and for those who drag behind. Glorfindel is very careful not to fall behind.

                It is in the nineteenth year of the crossing that he is changed forever, even more so than he already was. He knows what the creature is when it comes to him. The Wendigo have shorter hair than they did as elves, but it now grows all over their bodies. They are lean but far taller than normal elves. Their teeth, fingernails, toenails, even their feet and hands have changed. Claws on all limbs, teeth meant for shredding and cracking bones. Feet and hands meant to allow them to jump to even the highest of the ice packs and then down below to the valley where the Vanya walk. They are absolutely silent when they wish to be, and their eyes and scent are often the only things to give their presence away. Their eyes are so much larger than an elf’s, and they see in this darkness as well as elves once saw when the lamps were lit in the skies. They smell of death and corruption.

                This Wendigo is a new-turn, he can tell. It has not grown horns or antlers, and it still only has hair on its’ arms, legs, and head. “Laurefindel.” It hissed, and Glorfindel feels icy fingers down his spine.

            “Hráva?” He asks.

            The Wendigo nods as best it can, and Glorfindel feels sick. He has known this elf since they were children. But Hráva is not an elf anymore.

            “Have you come to kill me, Hráva?” He asks. He does not fear death the way he did so long ago. In fact, he would welcome it- and his old friend- with open arms.

            Hráva shakes its’ dark head. It stares at him for a few moments, and then the Wendigo jumps, flat footed, to the top of a glacier and climbs over. He wonders at the experience, but some of the younger Wendigo do this- visit old friends and family members before completely turning- and he thinks, perhaps, it is simply the elf’s way of saying goodbye. Perhaps when he next sees him, he will be eaten. He does not know, but does not doubt the possibility.

            He digs through his packs that night when they sit down and debates what he has left. There are a few strips of dried fish, one small hunk of what looks like ice-deer (although he could’ve sworn he ate the last of his ice-deer weeks ago), and a bit of lembas, no larger than his thumb. He debates- Lembas, fish, or ice-deer? Or should he go hungry, as he has for the last few days? He chooses the ice deer, and tears of bits of it, each piece no larger than his pinkie nail, to avoid making himself sick and possibly vomiting.

            When he wakes up in a few hours, he feels better than he has since they ate the last of the horses and dogs. Unthinking, he eats the rest of the ice deer, which is beginning to smell better and better to him, and continues the march. He is, as usual, hungry when they stop again, and he debates once more what to eat. Fish or lembas? And then there is a noise he doesn’t recognize. An odd sort of whispering, as if someone is hissing in Quenya while drunk. He turns to see Hráva once again, but the hair on his arms and legs has thickened into fur, and though he stands not a foot away from Elenwe, Turgon, and Idril, they do not seem to notice the sound. Then, the ice cracks.

            He tried to save Elenwe, and indeed pulled her from the water, but it was too late. Still, he has found his way into the mind of Turgon and Idril, the little one who only wears rags about her feet instead of shoes because no shoes here can fit her. When he returns to his pack, he sees Hráva leaving. He calls to the Wendigo, and it stops, midway up an icepack like a spider up a wall. “Hráva!” He calls, and the head turns to him.

            “Hráva, what have you given me?” He demands. He thinks he already knows, but hopes that it has just found a bit of ice deer, that it isn’t what he _thinks_ it is.

            “Life.” It snarls at him. And it leaves. He finds ice deer in his pack, just as he suspected, but now that he looks, it doesn’t have the right color or texture for ice deer. It does, however, feel like the muscle of a dead elf. He leaves it behind, though his stomach and some strange, darker craving demands for him to go back, get it, and _eat._ When he doesn’t, it tells him how easy it would be to pick up Idril, how quiet the child is. How _edible_ she is, how tasty she will be. He is disgusted, and so the dark voice whispers about Ecthelion and Turgon and Galdor- oh, and he has _always_ hated Salgant, wouldn’t Salgant be so _tasty?_

            He doesn’t know how he makes the full year to their finished crossing without eating another bit of Elven flesh- Hráva continues to bring him bits and pieces- but he does. And until the day he dies by the hand of the Balrog, he eats only bread, fruits, vegetables, fish, and fowl. Nothing that could ever be mistaken for the flesh of an elf.  

 

            “From that point, they followed trails of the dead. It is my understanding that most of them have been slain and live in Angband.” He tells Maen tiredly after finishing his narrative. “I had hoped not to speak of this to anyone- let the burden of kinslaying be upon my shoulders, not yours. Tell no one of this, I beg of you.”

            Maen does not answer, but opens a window to let his head out. Glorfindel can hear him retching. A few moments later, Maen gives him his vow, and Glorfindel knows that, no matter how loyal he is, his friend will not look upon him the same way again. He will probably not tease the golden lord about his refusal to eat any red meat, especially deer, but nor will he stay in his presence overly long. When he goes downstairs, evidence of this is already apparent. Maen refuses to look at his face, and looks ill when facing him. Glorfindel cannot blame him; he knows what Maen would taste like ( _delicious_ ), and it is a frightening thought. But it is dawn now, and his men and elves are ready, so he gives the orders. They ride out soon after, and Maen has allowed his own second in command the place of pride at the leaders’ side- something he would have only previously given up under orders or if he was wounded.

            It does not take long for them to reach the cave, but the thin light of pre-dawn has turned into the sharp yet dull light of early morning. As a group, they dismount, and those without bows or crossbows light torches. They enter to the sound of a whimpering child and soft growls. There are indeed children in those cages, unwounded and unharmed, though obviously hungry and frightened, and the blonde feels relief. He rushes to the cage to unlock it when one of his men calls out a warning. Glorfindel is knocked off his feet like a newborn horse, and out of the corner of his eye, sees flaming arrows flying as best they can; the cave is not the best place for an archer. He feels the malevolent presence he now remembers as a Wendigo, and is thankful for the shield separating him from the enraged creature. He stabs up, misses the struggling beast, stabs again, and the silver in the hilt causes a scream to be pulled from the creature’s throat. The battle has begun.  


	4. Life matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eastern Algonquian peoples began the myth of the Wendigo, and they are the creators of the word 'Moose'. Just like a moose, both the singular and plural form of Wendigo is Wendigo. A Wendigo develops the head of a stag, or moose, as well as antlers (and once white settlers came, the head and horns of a goat), but have the teeth of a wolf or wild cat. The more a Wendigo eats, the hungrier it gets; sometimes, if one never eats of the flesh of a human again, the curse of the Wendigo can, over time, abate.

           The shriek the Wendigo lets out draws screams and cries from the little ones and the presence of one of its' fellows. Glorfindel is thrown into a wall of the cave, and his vision goes black for a moment. When his eyes open once more, one of the Wendigo is nothing more than a ball of fire, unmoving on the ground, and a third beast is challenging his men. He cannot immediately find the second one, and he feels himself drift in and out of consciousness. The smell of burning flesh is what gets him up again. He knows these monsters, and bowless though he is, he is the best person to take care of them. He rises, and there is a fourth Wendigo, barely a few feet away from him. He lurches for his sword, but it is not bothered by his actions; it is snarling at the second of the two, and Glorfindel feels bile rise in his throat. The second Wendigo is right in between himself and the door to the cages. He gets his chance when the third Wendigo dies at the fiery arrows of his soldiers. The second barks a command in what sounds like butchered High Quenya, and the fourth seems to argue; a fifth, larger than both of them, challenges the second. His men are in a mixed state. Some are frozen in terror, some are dipping more arrows in pitch and lighting them, while others are on the ground putting pressure on bleeding wounds. There are a few on the ground who do not move at all.

           The largest Wendigo shoves at the one which had been challenging the second, an oddly short one, and a lucky shot by one of the archers gives him the chance he's been waiting for. The largest and smallest focus their efforts on the assembled elves and Dunedain, and once again, he has lost track of the second. He is dizzy, unable to walk in a straight line, and dives for the cage, landing on it instead of near it as he'd hoped. Desperately, fumbling fingers attack the small latch. He is bodily ripped off of the hideous metal contraption, but not before he manages to unlock it and roar at them to run. Later, he will realize that he yelled it in Quenya, his mind still not quite right, but once there is a clear path, they seem to get his meaning.

           There is another Wendigo missing; the short Wendigo has fallen to fire from an elf's torch and an archer's arrow. His mind is focused now, allowing him to see what's happening as if he is simply watching a play in the Hall of Fire. There are crimson eyes, reflecting yellow in his, and more of his soldiers are down. The largest Wendigo is-  _red and yellow, so pretty-_  is down as well, and- what was he doing? Surely, he had a reason for being in this cave, and certainly he should feel something besides mild boredom at the screams of his men. But the second Wendigo, one which he notices now has Elven ears, is walking backwards, and Glorfindel follows. The taste of elf lingers on his tongue from what is, literally, a lifetime ago, and he can hear the rough, dark voice snarling " _Life."_ at him.

           And doesn't he want to live? He's unsure of that, and a particularly loud shout has him feeling fear, but then there is red, there is yellow, and there is complete and utter  _peace._

           And hunger. He can't stop the hunger. But- he had a vow, he was sure. Something of not eating this- ' _What are vows, anyway? Just words. Words don't matter,_ life  _matters.'_

           Life matters. The words, simple as they are, fill him, and he decides that the voice, whether it is his own mind or the Wendigo, is correct. It does. And his foot catches on something shiny; a necklace. It is incongruous with the death and decay of the cave- bright blue and white beads, swallow feathers, rough, common stones. " _I made my Momma a necklace."_

           Life matters. The young one's voice, so small and desperate echoes in his head, and he roars two lifetimes of anguish and rage and love and  _vows_  and he doesn't know where the torch came from, but he brings it across the Wendigo's face with an audible ' _crack!'_ and the spell is broken. There is a roar, and then cheering, and Glorfindel is sure that the last Wendigo are dead, but he does not dare to take his eyes off of the monster - _red and yellow_ \- in front of him, choosing instead to shove it as far away as possible. This ends up being only a pace or two away, but there is an arrow in its' shoulder, and the once-elf snarls out its' own anguish before fleeing into the depths of the cave.

           Glorfindel, very carefully, does not think about the possibility of this being Haran. He reassures himself that his old friend would have had antlers by now, certainly, and would have had the head of a stag; he would have been far taller than even the alpha of the pack. This does not comfort him- either way, some poor, innocent elf was starving, forced to die by hunger, its' own hand, or survive in the worst way possible. Perhaps, like he had so long ago, it had not even made that choice; perhaps, some lonely Wendigo, like Haran, had given it a chunk of bloody, raw, life to fill its' stomach.

           The golden elf knew, all too well, that there was no way to fill such a hunger once it had been entertained the first time. His death by the Balrog had been a grace, surely sent by the ever-pitying Nienna herself. The only cruelty, he thought, was that some had survived, and that he had remembered. He wished he could forget once more. Moans of pain drew him from his thoughts, and he was unable to keep the contents of his stomach to himself, retching in a dark corner before limping to his soldiers. Only half of them were still standing, and of those on the ground, only a quarter were still alive. Only one of them looked to be able to survive the night. The leg, he noticed with a sick sense of detachment, would have to be amputated.

           They faced a choice, then- leave to the town of Bree, leave the dead where they lay, and get out before sunset in just an hour or two, or face nearly certain annihilation once the darkness came again. Glorfindel, looking at the faces before him, worn, exhausted, and grieving, made his choice.

           He stepped over the body of Maen to get to the injured and gave his orders, heart heavy. He would have liked to at least given the elves, not the least Maen, a proper burial. Just as those who died on the ice, however, they would be food for the Wendigo. Hopefully, they could keep anyone else from dying this night. After all- life matters.

\-------------

           The assorted men and elves waste no time heading back to the relative safety of Bree, creating litters from spears and cloaks. There are free horses now, and so none of them must ride double, as some had to do on the way to the cave of death. They pick up the children on the way. 

           In Bree, though there is much rejoicing done over the return of the little ones, Glorfindel and what remains of his people are not in the mood to celebrate. Maen's own second in command takes his place; there are many who move up in rank, though it is not in the way they wanted. 

           While the hunting party are cleaned, and stitched, and wounds are cauterized as needed (he was right, the elleth- previously one of his best runners- had to lose her leg), Glorfindel questions the little ones. Some say he is cruel, but they are silent when he glares darkly at them. If they had known month ago exactly  _what_ was attacking Bree, perhaps they would not have lost so many. If the mayor had only given them an accurate account of what had been happening, they would have been better prepared. But, he reminds himself, there is no use dwelling on the past now. There will be time for that later. 

           Much to his surprise, he finds from the little ones that the second Wendigo, dangerous as it was, had been protecting the children. It had not set them free, but it had kept the other monsters away from them. Despite this, they made plans to hunt down the monstrosity. It had a soft spot for children- very well. But it did  _not_ have a soft spot for its' prey. That in mind, he composed a short but detailed letter, sending it by bird to Imladris. Hopefully, it would arrive within the next few days. If not, well, they would have to decide on their own what to do. 

-

           ' _Elrond & Barad,_

_At Bree. Wendigo attack. Four down, one evaded. Scavenger, can become predator. Faster, stronger than elves. Not as smart. Packs moved out from Angband. Possible danger to Imladris. Only vulnerable to fire and silver. Down to half number of soldiers. Orders?_

_-G'_


	5. Die a hero- or live long enough to see yourself become a villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Wendigo gains not only the strength, speed, and grace of whatever it eats, but the power too. It can control minds, and make itself heard in the minds of others. Some say that it can even read the thoughts of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! Please continue to read and review. I love your reviews! Here's a little bit of what's going on in Imladris. Chapter title taken from Batman.

                Barad’s hands shook as he read the short, stilted note again. The penmanship was that of Gondolin, proving that this was no falsehood. But a Wendigo? Barad had no clue what that was- only what was revealed through Glorfindel’s note, hinting at a strong, fast, dangerous scavenger.

                And then he’d thought to ask. The dignitaries and their guards from Lorien had arrived safely. After seeing that they’d settled in, he sought the only creature he knew of that had been alive in the early first age- and, indeed, had made the crossing over the Grinding Ice. He had sought out the wisdom of the great and wise lady Galadriel where she stood, smiling over a fountain at the sight of her three grandchildren playing in the lower gardens.

                “My Lady- I do not seek to interrupt, but may I have your opinion in a matter?” He’d asked respectfully, head bowed.

                He heard the whisper of cloth and a creak. “Come, councilor. Ask me what you will; I will answer as I can. You are worried.” She said as he sat himself on a rocking chair across from her.

                “Indeed, my lady. My Lord Elrond and I sent Lord Glorfindel to Bree for what should have been a quick and easy hunt- we thought, surely, nothing more sinister than a wolf pack or some brigands.”

                She nodded, pouring herself a glass of wine from the sideboard. “Yes, my cousin would be a good choice for such things. And?”

                He took a deep breath. “And, well, my lady, I suppose I have only one question.” He watched her carefully while he asked, sounding out the strange word. “What is a …. Windy-go?”

                Galadriel gave him a look of horror, dropping her glass of wine in shock. “Councilor, I know that you seek not to frighten me- and yet, unknowingly, you do. Tread carefully and speak not of those creatures in my presence!”

                Barad swallowed. “Of course, my lady- I never intended to harm. Glorfindel sent out a report, stating that half our soldiers were gone, and that the W…..those creatures were at fault. I need to know what we fight- if you cannot bear to speak of them, might I ask if you know one who would?” He was now convinced that it was not some strange misspelling of the word ‘wolf’ or an odd Gondolinian word. The lady Galadriel had never set foot in Gondolin- it would’ve had to have been before the city’s founding.

                She was silent for a moment, breathing heavily and staring at something beyond his own sight in the north. “The Wendigo are- or were, at least, elves. Elves who, through desperation did something unforgiveable.” Her eyes did not move, and he wondered faintly if she saw her memories of the terrible twenty-year journey that no elf alive would speak of. “My cousin, though he does not remember, thanks to his death, was one of them. A lesser scion to be sure, and he never fully turned, but he was one of them. It is why he will eat no red meat.”

                Though he dreaded to ask now, and privately doubted that Glorfindel could be a ‘ _lesser’_ of anything, he repeated his question. “My lady- what, exactly _is_ a Wendigo? What was Glorfindel?”

                She rose suddenly, graceful as any bird, and shut the balcony windows. “They do not need to hear this.” She whispered under her breath, heart heavy. She turned to face the young councilor with sable hair and emerald eyes, and sat once more. “It is a Wendigo, not a windy-go. And it is an elf who has engaged in the practice of eating the flesh of another elf.”

                Barad’s stomach turned even as he grew angry. “Surely, my friend would never have done such a thing!” Still, doubt crawled up the back of his neck like a spider, burrowing under his skull. He had seen, in the war with Gil-Galad, elves do terrible things in the name of survival. Glorfindel, honorable and kind though he was, was still only an elf. Would starvation have done something to him?

                Galadriel looked at him sharply. “Take a care to the tone you use with me, councilor. He did, and confessed it to me before we separated on the Helcaraxe. He did not wish to, but a Wendigo had tricked him- and though he wills it not, he carried their curse.” She calmed herself after a moment and looked away from him, wishing she had not broken her glass- she felt she needed some wine for this.

                “Councilor, a Wendigo was once an elf. It is not an elf anymore. It does not act like an elf, smell like an elf, or look like an elf- and it is for this reason I believe the curse left my cousin at his death. He is no longer a Wendigo, but he once was. They are ever-hungry for flesh, in the way that Men are for power, and they are powerful. They fear sunlight, and fire, though there was none of the first until we had left the Ice, and the latter only on rare occasions. They fear silver, too, and are creatures of darkest malice.” She waited a moment again to catch her thoughts. “When my uncle burned the ships, one of the maiar of Namo cursed us all- no kinslayer shall ever slay their kin again, else a curse of never-ending hunger would be upon us. And it was.”

                “Is there any hope?” He asked softly, and she nodded absentmindedly.

                “Perhaps if, like my cousin, one never willingly partook of the flesh of another, and never did it again, the curse might be mitigated. And there are magics to cast out the evil from the affected elf, but one of the only few remaining with the ability do so is still at home in Lorien.”

                Barad nodded. “Might I ask why they are not with you, my lady, if they are so powerful?”

                Galadriel laughed bitterly, eyes flashing oddly yellow from the light coming from the balcony windows. “He is less powerful than I. But in order to have that power, one must not have been tainted by its’ opposite.”

                “And by knowing a Wendigo, you were tainted.” He said, assuming that it was part of the reason why so few of the survivors actually spoke of the Ice and the powers that some had gained from it.

                Galadriel only very rarely lied. But she nodded anyway, and rose. “Now, you know what they are. I go to visit my grandchildren; I have need of their simple kindnesses after such terrible memories.” And she walked out of the room, still more graceful than any other elf had a right to be.

                That lead him to where he was, shortly after speaking with Elrond and composing a quick reply to the golden warrior. He read it again, repeating the same thought once more. ‘ _Please let them both be wrong.’_


	6. Gather your forces while you may, they might still fail to save the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wendigo has many dark powers, including shapeshifting as well as possibly reading minds and hypnotism. It is said by some that it can even see the future, and will, like a carnivorous banshee, go to places where battles or murders will take place, so as to eat the corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a little cutesy, and I promise it's a different atmosphere on purpose. In Imladris, Elrond still thinks Barad is wrong, and there are only orcs or animals taking down people and elves. Meanwhile, Galadriel sends a request to her husband in Lorien. I promise, we'll get back to the awesomely violent and gory Wendigo stuff soon enough- this chapter's just a bit of necessary backstory. I never realized how much I liked the idea of young warrior Erestor until I started writing him. 
> 
> Azanul- Dim Streams. Dwarvish, courtesy of Stone and Steel.  
> Narag- Black, Dwarvish, courtesy of Stone and Steel.  
> Meril- Rose, Sindarin, courtesy of elfdict.
> 
> As always, please read and review! I love hearing from you guys.

                ‘ _Glorfindel,_

_Capture the remaining Wendigo with silver netting. Bring to Imladris. We need to know if it was only this pack or if there is an army. Galadriel is summoning someone to deal with it from Lorien. Make all haste._

_-Barad’_

                ‘ _Dearest Celeborn,_

_I regret to say I will not be home anytime soon. We have an attack on our hands. Send my best apprentice, please, along with a few Marchwardens. Be careful and have them make haste. We have an attack from creatures that shall never be named._

_-Ever yours, Galadriel’_

                Elrond looked over both of these letters quickly and efficiently, frowning. Galadriel’s was sent out immediately; as a ruler of a different land, he could not exactly stop her. However, he doubted the existence of these creatures. Everyone knew that thousands of elves had died on the crossing of the Grinding Ice, and it had taken around twenty years. But none had ever spoken of or heard about the strange creature known as a Wendigo. Finally, he sighed and sent Barads’ as well. Whatever it was- he strongly suspected some sort of new Orc breed- it did need to be captured.

 

 

 

_ Lorien _

                A young elf, laden with a staff and several books, made his way up the spiral stairs of Caras Galadhon surrounded by three laughing Marchwardens. He rolled his eyes at something one of them said and promptly spat back, “And yet,  _every_ maid in Lorien still prefers me over you, Rumil.”

                The youngest of the elves, a pale haired Galadhrim with grey eyes made an offended noise. “Hardly! I am still far preferred over Haldir.”

                The eldest of the four, a Galadhrim of similar looks, snorted, evidently unimpressed. The dark-haired elf- the only black haired elf in their company, smirked at him. “Yes, because Haldir and I are wise and don’t care. Don’t you, Haldir? Or are you still pining over- what was her name?” He shot the other two elves a conspiratorial look. “Oh yes, one of the lady’s handmaidens, Meril.”

                Haldir’s face promptly shot with red. “You little-“

                A giggling sound echoed, and they discovered several young ladies attentively listening to the argument. One of them was just as red as Haldir- almost as red as her namesake, in fact. “Meril, it’s not what you think!” He called, to the laughter of his two brothers and cousin.

                “Of course!” The previously silent Orophin agreed. “He is just desperately in love with you- care to go to dinner with him tonight?”

                Gasps echoed, and the young lady stuck her nose up and turned, apparently offended. “Orophin! Keep your mouth shut unless you learn some tact.” Erestor snapped.

                “He’s very sorry, Meril, but to be fair, Haldir was going to ask you anyway!” Rumil, the youngest of the elves, called up, earning a hit to the back of the head.

                Haldir huffed, and Erestor shoved him up the stairs, whereupon he immediately faced a half-dozen irritated ellith.  _‘Give me an army of orcs any day.’_  He thought to himself.

                The other three continued on, halfway listening to Haldir’s stuttered apology, followed by a request for the young lady to dine with him. And Erestor smirked once more, holding out a hand whilst Rumil sighed dramatically, and Orophin philosophically dug into his purse. “I thought for sure he wouldn’t have asked her out for another two weeks, at least!” The youngest objected.

                Erestor shook his head. “And maybe, if Orophin had kept his mouth shut-“

                The three remaining elves dissolved into good-natured arguing whilst continuing up the stairs, soon joined by a still-flushed but grinning Haldir. Immediately, silence reigned and they looked at him expectantly. “Well?” Rumil demanded.

                Haldir laughed. “It looks like I’m taking the best of our little group away, so the three of you will have to entertain yourselves tonight.”

                “I told you!”

                “You did not!  _I’m_ the one who said she’d say yes.”

                “Hey, what do you mean ‘the best’? Everyone knows I’m the best!”

                “Shut up, Rumil.”

                They took a moment on the final step to compose themselves, and then ordered themselves according to rank. Haldir, as the eldest and highest-ranked of the three (although he was the second- most junior of the Marchwardens), went first, followed by Erestor, the White Lady’s senior apprentice in the arts of magic, then Rumil who, though youngest, was the most junior of the Marchwardens, and then Orophin, who had only decided earlier this year that he wished to join his brothers. They bowed as propriety demanded, and then rose when their Lord gestured for them to do so. “Youth.” The Lord sighed, not unkindly, and shook his head with a smile.

                “I will be unable to pull the nearest patrol in time, so you four are carrying out a task for the White Lady.” They bowed once more, ready to accept their task.

                “Erestor- the time has come for you to go on your quest. My wife calls for you in Imladris. Gather your things, apprentice, and be ready to leave at dawn. It will be dangerous, and you will have to move quickly, so pack sparingly. Hurry, before Rumil can give you packing advice.” The dark haired elf bowed once more, barely reigning in a snicker at the last comment (Rumil would never live down the fact he’d tried to take half his closet on patrol once), and shaking in excitement.

                A mage’s training took decades- often leading into centuries. Normally, an elf with an aptitude in the spiritual arts would learn from the local, or village witch or wizard. Erestor had, but had outstripped his local’s power and expertise within a few months. He’d then moved to the most powerful in the Greenwood, the royal mage, and though it took almost two years, he had exceeded their power and knowledge as well. Then, the meddling maiar Mithrandir had found him, and Erestor had been saved from centuries working whilst only using a half measure of his strength. He’d learned more from his few months of following Mithrandir around than he had in three decades of learning in the Greenwood. And then, he was taken to Lorien, where Mithrandir had personally requested the famous Lady Galadriel to take him on. She did- and he finally felt as if he was learning something. Nearly every time he left, he had a new lesson in mind, or a new way to improve one of his spells, and he would be so drained of his innate magical powers that he felt as if he’d been behind a plow all day. That had been nearly six hundred years ago. And now, finally, he was judged as ready to take the final quest.

                Now that he was in the talan he shared with the three brothers, however, he felt nervous. There were no real rules for the quest, except for that it had to be an adequate test of magical power- meaning it would be something difficult enough to kill him if he did something wrong. And so he chose his items carefully. First, he sat his staff near the door to the covered part of the talan. He wasn’t quite good enough yet to control his magic without a focus point, and didn’t care for the idea of facing something that could possibly kill him without being properly able to use his magic. Next, clothes. A comfortable tunic and leggings- comfortable enough to sleep in, decent enough to be seen walking around in as well. Then, the robes of office and ceremony. If he passed- _when_  he passed- he would need them. After that, comfortable but useful riding clothes, his cloak, hunting knives, and the bow that was the mark of every Galadhrim. After his first decade of training, the Lady had forced him into warrior training, stating that it would bring discipline. And discipline it did- he had lost track of the number of times he’d cleaned the royal baths with nothing more than a scrub brush the size of his palm and soap. 

                He shook off the thoughts, amusing as they were, and pulled out some of his many, many books, sorting through them. He debated, gnawing on his lip, and then decided to just go with his personal grimoire. According to the Lady, every decent witch or wizard had one, except for the Maia, of course, and even they occasionally wrote things down. His personal one had his favorite spells, of course, as well as the more powerful ones that he was working on. The one creating light, which he’d learned from his wise mentor, was a useful one, and there was a personal spell of his own creation on the opposite page that he’d written for Mithrandir’s fireworks. He doubted he’d have need of that one, but young ones were always a fan of colorful flames, and if Imladris was becoming as dangerous as it sounded, perhaps there would be those in need of good cheer. The book went into his bag with care, wrapped in his ceremonial robes to keep it dry.

                His personal effects, he decided, he would wear. He had no circlet of office as many did, despite his being the Lady’s own apprentice (and the only one she’d been willing to take on since her daughter had married), but he wore his parent’s wedding bands on a silver chain about his neck and his own iron ring, cunningly twisted to mimic leaves and black flowers. He wore circlets- more like bracers, really, with the geometric patterns favored by dwarves; they were not only useful (they’d blocked many an orc blade) but, in his opinion, quite pretty.  Both his iron ring and his favored bracers were made by the dwarves of the Iron Hills; he’d had the opportunity to go there with Mithrandir, and the Maiar had left him in their care for several years. He was of the firm opinion that nine out of every ten things that came from an elf’s mouth about a dwarf was wrong nowadays, and still often wrote back and forth with some of the friends he’d made in the hills.

                A satchel and box caught his eye, and he mentally cursed the scatter-brained Rumil. As the last to leave the Golden Wood, he brought back messages and packages for Erestor (most of the other Galadhrim, and their seniors, the Marchwardens, did not have friends outside of Lorien), and there was one with his name on it, and the symbol of his foster-family’s house. He opened it happily, laughing several times at the accounts he was given- there were new children in the family, and they were little troublemakers. Purely out of habit, he waited until he finished the letter to see what exactly was in the long wooden box. Normally, Azanul and the other members of the family did not send gifts; there was too large of a chance that they would be stolen along the way. Still, he was pleased that they had remembered his begetting day, and even more pleased when he realized what they had sent him.

                His old staff had made for the village elder several thousand years ago, and had seen owner and owner again and again. Every time it passed into new hands, it became weaker, and less useful. Now, it was only useful in that it assisted him in concentrating on something- it was becoming more common for him to try and use his iron ring nowadays. But this- he removed the long iron spear with a latch just between the bottom of the spearhead and the top of the shaft for him to put any focusing crystals from the box, and the moment his hands touched it, he knew that it had been touched by no other mage. The spearhead itself was iron, tipped with silver filigree as decoration, and the iron-banded shaft was a fine specimen of what the dwarves called Naragwood. The wood was an oddity- only a little heavier than ash, but as hard as iron, and black as his hair. He immediately put his focus crystal into the new staff, enjoying the feel of power surging through him, and set about writing a very grateful thank-you note. Deciding to make use of the box, he also visited the market whilst the brothers were away and bartered for children’s toys, as well as fine Elven cloth for Azanul’s wife. He hoped she would appreciate it- he’d never met the dwarrowdam, but Azanul had repeatedly stated that she was a guild-mistress for the weavers and tailors, and she enjoyed bringing her work home with her.

                By the time he returned from the markets, Orophin already had his bags packed, along with bow and arrow, and he could hear Rumil puttering about in his own section of their shared talan. Orophin nodded a greeting at him, looking at the staff curiously, and he explained. As usual, the moment he mentioned anything about magic or dwarves- and this concerned both of them- his eyes glazed, and within about two sentences, he was helping his brother pack Haldir’s bags, leaving Erestor alone to finish his letter in peace.

                Haldir did not come back for several hours, and was quite surprised that all three of them were ready so quickly. “How did you get them to pack for me?” The eldest whispered, though Orophin and Rumil were bickering in the main room and unlikely to hear them.

                Erestor smiled. “Trick of the trade.” He whispered back, and Haldir snorted at them.

                “You three! Well, you two- I won’t bother with you, Erestor, it’s not like you listen or sleep,” Haldir called, pointedly ignoring Erestor’s objection that he did listen and did, in fact, sleep, just not where the prankster Rumil could get to him, “get to bed! We leave at dawn.”


	7. Dark Passenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Among northern Algonquian cultures, cannibalism, even to save one's own life, was viewed as a serious taboo; the proper response to famine was suicide or resignation to death." -Brightman, Robert A. (1988). "The Windigo in the Material World". Ethnohistory 35 (4): 337–379.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As promised, back to the Wendigo action. Title taken from the TV show Dexter (the serial killer one, not the cartoon). The Dark Passenger is an entity in his mind- basically his murderous urges personified. By the way, back in high school, we were asked to pick a myth and do research about it, and then tell the class what it was about, all the fun little details, how it might have changed modern culture, ect. I picked the Wendigo, and I can't tell you how happy I am to know that you guys are enjoying the results of my research. 
> 
> Gwanno Ereb Nin- Leave me alone. Sindarin, courtesy of ArwenUndomiel.com
> 
> Please let me know when you think! This takes place about a week and a half after the last chapter, when the notes are sent out.

            They are stuck in Bree for over a week before receiving news from Barad. During that time, Glorfindel has distracted his people by having them board up windows, set watch fires (something that had not been done previously), and possibly most important, drape fishing nets with silver rings, necklaces, baubles- anything, really- as curtains for windows and doors. They have made a few daring visits to the cave, in which they pulled the bodies of the ones they had lost out of the darkness in order to take their personal items and set their spirits free to Namo's halls by burning them.

            It is, very possibly, the worst week in Glorfindel's second life.

            He has an ulterior motive for his work, which consists mostly of helping the locals with simple chores as well as taking care of their own wounded and dead. Whenever he closes his eyes, he is assaulted by memories that have, by the grace of the Valar, previously been lost to him. Here, the flaming whip of the Balrog, there, Ecthelion playing the flute for the young ones. Families separated on the Ice, brought together again in Gondolin. He remembers looking in mirrors and seeing his eyes shine with a golden hue over their normal blues, remembers looking into someone else's- someone who partook willingly, but only once- he cannot remember the name.

            And then he does-  _Artanis._   _Galadriel._ His thoughts, too, have not been silent. Where once, in this second life- and, he thinks, in his first at one point- he was alone in his thoughts, he is no longer. The Dark Voice, which he calls Laurefindel for lack of a better name, is always speaking to him. It speaks only in High Quenya, specifically in the dialect they used on the Grinding Ice and, sometimes, the odd one they used in Gondolin, and so it is easy to tell amidst the bird-like Sindarin and odd guttural sounds of the Common Tongue of Men. It disrupted his sleep regularly, forcing him to either eat something or pace his territory-  _'walls, Laurefindel. And it is not mine.'_ He found that when he did eat, however small the meal was, Laurefindel was quiet except to tell him when someone or something was coming. He had to admit, however grudgingly, that it was useful having a Wendigo around. Laurefindel could see far better than he could at night or in darkened rooms, but he found himself wincing occasionally in the bright light of day. Laurefindel's hearing was comparable to his own, but his sense of touch was greatly dulled. It more than made up for the lack of feeling with its' sense of smell, however. Laurefindel 'slept'- or at least was silent- during the day. Whilst Glorfindel was in reverie, or at night, the Wendigo inside of him stretched its' senses, identifying smells and sounds that, normally, Glorfindel did not have a name for and could not hear.

            It was Laurefindel, not the great Balrog slayer of old, that saved Bree on the night that Elrond's bird returned. ' _Wake up!'_  It hissed at him. He grumbled a little, attempting to go back into reverie, and then a smell assaulted his- or Laurefindel's, it was difficult to tell- senses.

            He jolted into wakefulness immediately at Laurefindel's shriek. It was times like these where he was both glad that no one else could hear it and wished that it would just be quiet for once. The elves currently on watch looked at him curiously as he rose and stretched. "Just getting some air." He excused himself. He did not believe that he was fooling anyone; rather, he strongly suspected they felt he was as nervous as they were.

            ‘ _Where do you want me to go?’_ He asked himself- it was a strange sensation to do so, to be sure.

            The sickening sensation of someone else in his mind threatened to make him gag- he could almost _feel_ the Wendigo’s claws at the tips of his fingers, feel his teeth changing to dangerously serrated knives in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth whilst he walked. Normal teeth- nice and flat in the back, canines and incisors perhaps a little longer than usual- but normal. It snarled, and to his shock, he realized that _he_ had just growled as well. He swallowed, willing his mind and body to go back to the way it was just two weeks ago. Laughter from the beast in his mind was the only result. And then he heard it- scratching.

            Instinctively, he lowered himself to the ground and took a look around the edge of one of the houses, thankful for the improved sight. The wind shifted, and he got a nose full of foul stench from the being he saw. It was hunched over, digging into the wooden boards on the door to a small residence. He grabbed ahold of the silver blade he kept in a sheath at all times now, ignoring Laurefindel’s hiss of displeasure, and the moment the creature stopped, freezing, he jumped.

            The Wendigo got a silver blade between its’ ribs for its’ efforts, and stood up with an enraged howl. Guards called a warning, and he joined his own voice in, pulling out the blade only slice it from the lower left shoulder to the upper abdomen. He was flung off, the shining knife falling to the ground, and the Wendigo gave another howl before leaping onto the walls of the town and climbing over, shrieking all the way. ‘ _And stay out.’_ Laurefindel hissed vindictively. Glorfindel had to fight the urge to laugh- or sob, maybe, he wasn’t sure. Within seconds, worried friends and townspeople were there, and the elves gasped at what was written upon the door.

            ‘ ** _GWANNO EREB NIN_** _’_

            “Leave me alone.” One of the Dunedain translated, and Glorfindel groaned as he stood, pain blossoming in his hip where he’d been thrown to the ground. ‘ _Eat’._ The Wendigo demanded. ‘ _No.’_ He thought to himself.

            They head back inside, and Glorfindel finally gives into the demands- but only a grilled fillet of fish from the river, not what he knows without a doubt the Wendigo wants to eat.

            A few hours later, one of the guards finds him, claiming that he has news; there is a letter from Elrond’s Chief High Councilor. Glorfindel frowns as he reads it, and his men become nervous.

            “Surely,” one of them says, “it is time to go home, yes? We have lost too many already.” The sentiment is echoed with the others, and Glorfindel heaves a sigh. Laurefindel, in the back part of his mind, is delighted at the prospect of killing remaining Wendigo in his territory.

            Glorfindel passed it around, but explains anyway. “The packs- they should be in Angband, or the mountains, or in the far East where shadows lengthen. But one of them was here. We must capture it and take it home with us for interrogation.”

            The statement begins a mutiny. The Dunedain and elves he brought are the bravest and most loyal, but even they would not willingly travel for nigh a month with the monster in tow, and so shouts and arguments ring from the main hall.

            “SILENCE!” Glorfindel roars, and though they are obviously angry and terrified, their training kicks in, and they are quiet.

            “Now! I am one for obeying orders, BUT-“ He raises his voice as some begin to speak once more, and then waits for a moment. “But I will not force you- any of you- to take such a dangerous creature with us all the way to Imladris.” Relief runs through the assembly, evident in slouched shoulders, and whispered apologies to fellows turned enemy, however briefly.

            “We do need to drive it out of Bree- otherwise, there will be no stopping it before it makes a visit to Imladris. So we will go to the cave in two hours’ time, and we will seek out the beast. We will kill it in its’ lair, or force it to run and kill it on the way. Death or capture, this nightmare must end.”

            Now that the options are laid out for them, there is no more talk of betrayals- only of getting more arrows, more pitch, gathering torches, and dragging down the nets- they do not _plan_ to capture the beast, but if it makes the monster slow down, they will gladly use it.

 

            About two to three hours later, when the sun is in the sky, giving them an advantage, they ride out to the cave once more. There, they find the entrance is sealed with the bodies of loved ones, and a mournful cry is wrenched from desolate throats. Gently, a group pulls them out of the mouth of the cave, whilst runners seek alternate entrances or exits by Glorfindel’s order. They are unable to find any, and so the third group, led by Glorfindel himself, enters the cave, torches raised high.

            In the antechamber, there are only half or mostly-eaten bodies, the piles of ashes and rotting meat that were once Wendigo, and empty cages. They go deeper into the cave, where the Wendigo was trying to lead Glorfindel during the first attack, and are forced to go through in single-file until the passage opens up into another chamber. Here, there are shiny rocks, pieces of jewelry, nests made of bones, twigs, clothing, and other scavenged goods, and- most frighteningly- maps. His new second in command takes a look at these, and is unable to stifle her gasp. “Captain!” The elleth cries.

            Immediately, he turns his attention to her. “What is it?”

            “These are maps- Imladris is circled.” The warrior rushes to her side and sees that she is, indeed, correct.

            “Out of the cave! To the horses!” He calls, and begins dividing their people into groups. “Swordsmen!” They are the most useless for this particular enemy, “Stay in Bree until I send word. Take care of the wounded, and send a rider for us if the We- monster comes back. Send Elrond a note with his bird- warn him that the beast is heading to Imladris. Archers! Center line- bows drawn. Spearmen, flank them.” The blonde looks around, and cries out in frustration, “What are you waiting for? Go!”

            They go, and Glorfindel prays to every Vala he can think of as well as several of the Gods and Goddesses of the mortals that they will be fast enough.


	8. When it's too dark to see, open your eyes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Fiddler and his brother were arrested in the early 1900s for brutally killing 14 people whom they believed were turning into Wendigo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The title for this chapter was taken from the song 'Symmetry' by KLANGKARUSSELL. Ooh, I hope some of you got the hints in the earlier chapters, or you're going to be confused! Ah, JK, it's stated pretty clearly in here. I'll give you a hint: What's a Wendigo and not Glorfindel? 
> 
> As for Erestor- I'm not saying he's half Maiar. I'm just saying that his birth daddy had some Maiar in him and left or was summoned to Valinor before they could find out how much. I'm leaving it purposefully vague, so feel free to to pick and choose the identity of Erestor's dad. I'd love to hear what you think *hint hint*
> 
> Triggers for this chapter: Story typical references to cannibalism and burning things, I suppose. Oh, and Celebrian and Barad are mother hens who think Erestor is too young, but he's actually way past his majority, so I didn't feel the need to use the underage archive warning.

            They ride long and hard to Imladris. They defer to the experience of the Dunedain in this case, using the forced march pace of two hours in the saddle, two leading the horses, two resting and watering the horses, the only change being a few hours in the deepest part of the night to rest. They switch horses every day, so as not to tire the animals overly-much. Though none of them like destroying trees or leaving traces of themselves, they create a bonfire during this time each night, and look away from it, hoping the light will keep the Wendigo away; it works, but sometimes they see traces of the beast- the same claw marks on the abandoned farmhouses in Bree litter the trees and the ground in many places. One memorable morning, they find tracks just a pace or two away from one of the sentries.

            It is that night that they realize the beast is playing with them.

            The journey is still several weeks long, though they’ve cut over a week off of their journey. During the second week, they realize that it isn’t heading to Imladris at all- rather, one of the nearby small villages. They send their lightest and leanest warrior, a young elleth who should not have been here at all, Glorfindel tells himself, no elf should see this type of carnage, and their speediest horse to ride ahead of them.

            On the third week, they find a dead horse, eviscerated and eaten. But when they arrive at the village, it has been evacuated, and the young she-elf has left them a short note, stating that she is leading the survivors to the main city where it is safer, and- and that she is sorry about the horse, but that it died so that she might live.

            The warriors search high and low through the village that night, and are able to find only the bodies of livestock. The tracks of elves and animals leaving the village have turned the winding dirt path into a thick mud with the recent rains. They press on anyway, and find the body of a mostly-eaten half-elf another day or two in, and they know they have followed the correct trail. There is only one creature which would have done this and left marks such as the ones the Wendigo leaves.

            On the fourth or fifth day- it is difficult to count when one’s life consists of saddle-ground-saddle-bury bodies-saddle-ground-saddle, they catch up with the fleeing villagers and young warrior. Their pace is slowed from that point, being unable to change horses every day, but they consider it a small price to pay; the sheep and cows some villagers have refused to leave without are finally left behind- no one wants to argue with the famous Balrog slayer- and most of the villagers are on horseback. Miraculously, they do not have another Wendigo incident until they reach the city. They find out why a few days later. A caravan of traders, or, perhaps, refugees was unlucky on their way to the hidden valley. Perhaps, their watch fires were not large enough. Perhaps- and Glorfindel thinks this is more likely, though he does not say it out loud- perhaps it smells the Wendigo in him, just as Laurefindel smells its’ competitor, and wants to lay out territory.

            He is in agreement with the darker side of himself for once- it must be hunted down and killed, questioning be damned.

            They head to Imladris anyway- it is not fair to the people with him to suddenly hand off the burden of leadership and leave, though Laurefindel continues to insist upon it.

            On the third week, they arrive in Imladris. Immediately, they can see that something has changed. Sentries are everywhere, the barracks and main house are teeming with refugees, and even the councilors are wearing armor. The horses are taken care of immediately, as are the villagers; Barad wants statements immediately, but he sends the wounded members of his party to see the healers first. Then, and only then, does he speak.

             “There’s only one of them left. My men wounded it, and then I myself had a turn at it, but the damn things are nigh indestructible.” It is rare to hear Glorfindel curse, but he feels the situation is appropriate for the words he hears during drinking games in the barracks.

             “Only one caused all this damage? Once this one is finished off, we must hear the tale in its’ entirety. But none of that now- the lady Galadriel has brought in her own reinforcements.”

            Glorfindel nodded and rested in one of the chairs in Barad’s office. “Please tell me she’s brought a few dozen archers or a pet dragon.” He drawls, head in his hands.

            He can hear Barad huff in amusement. “No, though I wish it. Three of her Galadhrim, only two of whom are actual Marchwardens, and her best spellcaster. The spellcaster- I have little faith in any elf who associates willingly with-“ he stopped to find a word, “ _naugrim_.” He spat.

            Glorfindel glanced up sharply. "Daily, I find myself wondering at how the ages have changed the world, Councilor, but this I have not been so fond of. Were we not once friends and allies? There is no use in berating a youth with the wisdom to seek allies in unexpected places." His tongue was as sharp as his look, and the younger ellon seemed suitably abashed. The golden warrior could not help but add, in a bitter tone, "Besides- even the darkest of their kind are not the true monsters in this world."

            The councilor looked upon him, and he felt uncomfortably similar to an animal which had been taken apart in a butcher's stall. "Captain." He stated, not unkindly. "I did not intend to offend you; if I have done so, I regret it."

            The other elf accepted the apology with a firm nod, and eagerly changed the subject, if only just a little. "Perhaps I spoke too quickly, Barad. Now, this spellcaster- you normally throw much belief in the workings of magic. If my cousin recommends him, why do you speak against him?"

            "Well," he began, suddenly self-conscious, "Dwarves. And 'tis all that must be said in the matter."

            Glorfindel snorted indelicately. "Barad! I've known you for well-night three thousand years, and a fine politician and evader you may be, but a liar's skills are ones you've missed."

            The two bantered back and forth with the easy familiarity of old friends. He'd found out that half the ellith in Imladris (including the councilor's daughters) were, as Barad put it, 'overly fond' of the vagabond, and that he was annoyingly intelligent for a younger elf. That had been countered with- "were you not just a season ago trying to marry them both off" and "I thought you usually mourned for the lack of intelligence in youth."

            Less than an hour later, their conversation (which had somehow become twisted into gossip about the youth sleeping with all three of his Galadhel guards as well as Olorin and an entire caravan of dwarves. The most impressive one stated that it was all at the same time) was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Enter!" Barad called, and the door opened to admit a servant.

            "My Lord- Lords, Lord Elrond has requested your presence in the war room."

            Glorfindel nodded and rose, whilst Barad gestured for the servant to leave. The moment he did, Glorfindel turned around. "We have a war room?"

            Barad chuckled, shaking his head. "No- it's the room he used when meeting Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel whilst he was courting their daughter."

            Glorfindel snickered, put on his most serious face, and strode from the room, Barad following closely. Somehow, it had escaped him to tell him, amidst discussion of the chaos in Bree with three of the councilors, including Barad, before heading to his office, and talk of the reinforcements in Lorien, about Laurefindel. ' _Nothing escapes us unless we want it to_.' Laurefindel hissed slyly. Glorfindel fought off a shudder and continued on.

            They reached the comfortable private meeting lounge in just a few minutes. Already a fire roared in the hearth, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and several elves were already seated. Celebrian, having handed off the young Arwen to a nursemaid and the boys to their lessons, sat beside her husband on a blue velvet lounger; their hands were clasped, white-knuckled in their grip. Lady Galadriel was sitting across from them on a matching lounger, far from the fire, sharing the seat with two of the young Galadhrim, who immediately rose to their feet and bowed. The other two elves in the room- a third Galadhel and a dark-haired elf with a rather frightening spear- had claimed the window seat, and rose and bowed with their elders. Elrond and Celebrian stood as well, and gestured for them to reclaim their seats. Celebrian, ever the kind hostess, spoke first. "Councilor Barad, Lord Glorfindel, you both know my mother." She waved a hand, and continued. "The eldest of the three- and a distant cousin of mine, is Haldir." The elf who had been sitting near Galadriel bowed once more and murmured a greeting. "Orophin is a cousin of Haldir's, but, through family circumstances too convoluted to bother with now, is not mine." The three blonde elves rolled their eyes, whilst the dark-haired one snickered, and Galadriel cracked a smile.

            "Interestingly enough, three of the four of them are related to you, Elrond, however distantly." This time, it was Galadriel who spoke, a smile in her voice, though not on her lips.

            Celebrian laughed, though the tension in her frame did not abate. "Indeed. The third is Rumil, who is certainly the youngest, and the fourth of the infamous troublemakers of Lorien is the one who is around the least- Erestor."

            The 'vagabond' who Barad had grumbled about earlier stood and gave a polite nod in their direction- and the Wendigo inside of him made itself known. ' _Mine._ ' Laurefindel snarled. Glorfindel simply introduced himself, attempting desperately to ignore the darker voice.

            'Fine _. Ours. But still mine.'_

            ' _Laurefindel, be silent!_ ' He wondered if he should really be encouraging what was surely a symptom of madness by responding to it, but it abated obediently, and he forced the thought from his mind. The Lady of Imladris smiled at his politeness, and continued. "Boys, this is Imladris' chief high councilor- I believe you've already met, yes, Erestor?" Was that his imagination, or- no, the mother of Imladris' twin terrors was arching a brow at the dark-haired elf, who merely grinned cheekily.

            "Aye, Lady Celebrian, we have indeed met. He has some woefully outdated ideas about some friends of mine, and cares not to learn the difference."

            Barad squeaked indignantly, and Glorfindel could not help but laugh- it was rare indeed to see the councilor so out of sorts when in public!

            ' _Oh, alright. Maybe ours.'_

            ' _Mine!'_

            ' _Either consent to share, or we forget about this terrible idea.'_

            ' _Fine. But still-'_

            ' _Yours, yes, I know._ '

             ‘ _As long as you know.’_

            Glorfindel only managed to quell his laughter- it was certainly the first time he’d laughed in  _weeks_ \- at the none-too-gentle elbow in the ribs from his friend. “Oh, come now, Barad, have a sense of humor.” The trio of silver-haired Galadhrim let out snickers as well, but Galadriel quelled them with a glance.

             “Now that we have had our introductions,” Elrond said in a tone that brooked no argument, “It is time to discuss our plans. And I find that I must ask this: what were you hoping to do with three archers and a spearman against such a creature as that which has assailed us?”

            Erestor seemed rather offended at the term ‘spearman’, but Galadriel simply raised a hand to silence him. “Erestor is my apprentice, and is similar in power to my own self, though his power often manifests itself in a more….combative fashion. These three, though young, are all master archers- and so, Elrond, I propose a trap.”

            The Lord of Imladris nodded, and Barad found himself a seat- near Celebrian of course, as it would not do for him to sit near his newest intellectual rival. Glorfindel privately thought he was behaving like a child; at least the young elf had an excuse. It was difficult to tell age with one of their kind, to be sure, but something about him exuded an air of youthful playfulness combined with wisdom learned not from books but from life itself. ‘ _Really?’_  He thought to himself. ‘ _Am I truly smitten so soon?’_  It seemed quite impossible, but at that time, Laurefindel interrupted once more.

             ‘ _Bad smell.’_

            The Balrog slayer ignored it, focusing again on the conversation. Somehow, they had ended up with Haldir, the best shot of the three, on the roof of the Hall of Fire, Rumil, the weakest, on one of the balconies of the main house, and Orophin with the Imladrian guards near the barracks. Erestor rose and gestured to a point on the large map behind Galadriel, and Glorfindel tried not to be distracted by the way that dark mane fell. ‘ _Hair? Smell him.’_

_‘That’s revolting! No, I will not smell him.’_

_‘Someone smells bad. Better not be him.’_

_‘Laurefindel, for the last time, be silent!’_

            “Does that sound plausible to you, my Lord?” Barad asked politely whilst scrutinizing the map. Thankful for the distraction- and hopeful that he would not make a fool of himself- he walked closer to the map as well.

             “I agree with the positioning of Haldir, certainly, but Orophin and Rumil should be switched, in my opinion. The balcony would be a more dangerous spot- too exposed.” There was nodding all around, so he supposed he hadn’t made a fool of himself after all.

             “Cousins?” Erestor asked, and Haldir narrowed his eyes.

             “Aye, I agree.” Rumil made a noise of objection, and Haldir turned on him. “Rumil, you are a decent archer- certainly as good as or better than any in Imladris. But you aren’t better than Orophin.”

            Orophin nodded. “Personally, I’d feel much safer knowing you had my back, and not that fool.”

            Haldir scoffed. “Fool? I’ll have you k-“ His words were cut off by an oddly tan (at least, for what Glorfindel had originally assumed was some sort of scribe's) hand.

             “Having backup is important to the success of any mission. Particularly one in which someone might accidentally shoot  _me._ ” Rumil flushed but nodded.

             “And I,” Erestor chirped, as if he had not just muffled his older cousin, “Will stay in the center of yonder field. The bait and the hook all at once.”

            The motherly Celebrian frowned. “Forgive any offence, but my _sons_ are your age. Surely, it would be better to have you someplace safe.”

            Erestor, familiar with being questioned due to his age, was not offended at all, and said so. Galadriel, however, was. She interrupted with a frown. “It is time he faced his final quest, daughter mine; he has done the first few successfully, and I have no doubt that this will be a success. For the final quest to be recognized, however, it must be a sufficient match in strength.”

            Elrond joined his wife with a matching scowl. “My Lady, with all due respect, I am sure you are correct. However, I have not seen evidence of this magic, and I worry about putting a young one in such danger as will no doubt be there. No offence meant.” He added quickly with a nod to the spear-wielding mage in the corner.

            Erestor’s eyes blazed, and Glorfindel had to swallow and force himself to look away, ignoring Laurefindel’s attempts to tell him more about the ‘bad smell’ which was apparently coming from Galadriel. “I am more than capable of standing in the middle of a field and yelling ‘eat me’ at the top of my lungs until the beast comes! I am even capable of casting more than once spell to set it alight and give the archers time to do their work.” He glanced around the room. “And perhaps it is too long spent with dwarves, but if someone tells me they do not mean offence _one more time,_ I will start to take it.”

            Rumil, unable to keep silent for long, agreed. “He has been questioned by every guard, councilor, and other elf in Imladris so far about his age with the platitude of ‘no offence.’ Trust me, you do not wish to be in the room when he _does_ take offence.”

            Galadriel nodded. “Even so.”

            Glorfindel frowned a little. “How old did you say you were? Seven hundred?”

            Erestor grit his teeth, but nodded. “Well, then, Elrond, I hardly see the problem.” He was gratified to see bright-eyed elf blink at him in shock. “I crossed the Helcaraxe at my first century, and slew a Balrog by the time I was four hundred.”

            “Yes, Glorfindel, and you died.” Barad interjected. “Forgive us, please, for not wanting someone who- granted, is almost twice the age that you were at the time- is still, in the eyes of modern elves, a child.”

            The blonde glared firmly at the councilor, and Barad sighed. “I know, you do not like to be reminded of your death- but your death _happened_ , and you were entirely too young!”

            Erestor chose that time to return the favor. “And as the women in Rohan like to say- not that you would know of them- those who do not wield swords can still fall upon them!” In a tone dripping with venom, he added, “ _No offence.”_

            The councilor threw his hands in the air with a noise of irritation. “And what of it, my Lord? You are the final vote to this.”

            Elrond sat in silence for a moment, only moving to raise a hand when someone made a noise. Finally, after a few minutes of contemplation, he released a bone-weary sigh. “We need time to get the injured and young from Imladris, councilor. As much as I do not like this, it is the best way we have to gain a little time. Now, I will add something to this plan of yours; if any of the four of you think you will fall to it, or if the fighting becomes too thick, you will come back inside the main house and evacuate. Understood?”

            Needless to say, Barad and Celebrian had not understood, and proceeded to argue even more. Galadriel stood to her feet suddenly, eyes flashing the same gold he saw from the Wendigo in the cave, and cried, “Enough!”

            ‘ _Bad smell.’_ Glorfindel recalled. Galadriel was a- he was unable to finish his thought, horror rising within him. Perhaps, instead of just one, they would have two to defeat. ‘ _Be honest.’_ He chastised himself. ‘ _Instead of two, they have three.’_

            He kept his face purposely blank as the assembled elves became quiet. Galadriel spoke then. “Haldir, you will be on the roof of the main house. Orophin, you will be on the western balcony. Rumil, you will be in front of the barracks. Erestor, you will be in the main courtyard- keep your back to the house, and your ears open. This matter is settled; we have only to drive the beast from its’ newest hole.”

            A firm nod from Glorfindel, Elrond, and the Lorien warriors, and a hesitant one from Celebrian and Barad settled the matter. “Good.” She stated simply, and then turned to her cousin. “Now, Glorfindel, I assume you have some ideas on how to find it?”

            They left that day with orders: none would leave Imladris yet, but bags would stay packed so that they could leave within a moment’s notice. Right now, they had the Wendigo’s attention and could not afford for it to leave and then return with no warning. The city would be under a strict curfew- no one was to leave the main house after dark until the monster had been dealt with, and rations began as well. They had not expected so many refugees, and so were woefully unprepared. The rationing, though necessary, brought forth nightmares of years on the Grinding Ice, using cloak ties as a belt instead of an actual belt because his waist was simply too small for them. The bone deep cold had been all-consuming, only beaten by the ravenous hunger and unforgiving depression. His days were spent searching with his best scouts; his nights, hunched in his room, staring disconsolately at his meager fire. It could have been built up, certainly, but something, ingrained into him for years of not having enough of anything, would not allow him to waste the plentiful wood. His dark thoughts were interrupted, once more, by a knock.

            He wondered who would rap upon the door to his chambers; he expected no visitors, and night had already fallen. Hesitantly, silver blade in hand, he opened the door. Galadriel stood before him, Erestor behind her. He pulled the door the rest of the way open, and gestured for them to enter. “Come in, come in.” He encouraged with faux politeness. What did they want?

            Galadriel smiled at him, and took a place on his blue settee, with fox furs draped over it, whilst Erestor stood looking around oddly. Glorfindel shut the door and slipped the lock home. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the leather chairs by the fire, and Erestor did so.

            He himself stood for a moment to throw a few extra pieces of wood on the fire and turn it to a respectable blaze before having a seat in the other unoccupied chair.

            “I shall not digress. I’ve come to speak with you about the Helcaraxe- and after.” Galadriel said, playing idly with a piece of the fur. “Erestor already knows- about my own curse, at least, though I have said nothing of the thoughts I have heard from your own mind.”

            That certainly explained why the young one was so nervous. Trapped in a room with two Wendigo- he would be a fool not to be frightened. “Very well. I remember parts and pieces, but not the entirety.”

            Erestor set down the basket he carried on the main table. “The fishing was good today; I’ve some salmon if you’re hungry.”

            Glorfindel looked at him, confused though grateful. “I thought the guards were to block all access from the river.”

            The young elf nodded, flushing at a look from his teacher. “I may have walked right on by two drunk sentries and went spear-fishing.”

            The elleth sighed. “Now, you can see what I put up with in Lorien.” Her smile was good-natured, however, as she reached to the basket and took out an entire fish with a suspicious hole in its’ side, and placed it on a plate, also pulled from the basket. “I know that you are not dealing…well with your unique situation. What troubles you the most of it? I have faith that I can alleviate some of your fears.” She inquired, pulling a small knife from a pocket on her dress to remove scales.

            “I- How do- what I mean to say, is will I turn into one of those things?” Erestor made himself busy skinning and filleting the next fish. They had been gutted properly and roasted whole; Glorfindel suddenly found that he was very, very hungry indeed.

            His cousin shook her head. “Unless you eat of elven flesh once more- possibly human or dwarven flesh too, I will not pretend to know- you will be quite fine. Your next time consuming the flesh of an elf, however, will be your last time _being_ an elf.” She had succeeded in removing the scales from her own meal and began picking off pieces of it by hand.

            He sighed in relief and happily accepted the plate of sliced fish which was offered to him with a nod of thanks. “And this-“ He hesitated again, glancing at Erestor, who was obviously listening, though he still focused on the fish. He inhaled sharply. “I’ve been calling it Laurefindel. Is the- Wendigo, I suppose- ever going to go away?”

            She sighed sadly and shook her head. “Nay, cousin, it will not. Laurefindel is here to stay. But you will find, I think, that it can be useful in many situations, as long as you do not allow it to direct _what_ you eat.”

            “What do you mean?” He asked sharply, biting into his first piece of fish.

            She shrugged, golden locks shifting with the motion. “Precisely what I say. If you are ever under attack, it will smell the attacker before your horse, probably before a hunting dog will. It will hear it before you consciously do, and in the dark, it will see it before you do. You’ve the senses of a Wendigo, Glorfindel, but the elven mind is not meant to handle them. Laurefindel is the way you get to use them without becoming truly mad.”

            “Did you suffer in the same way?” He questioned after finishing off the first part and beginning on the second.

            “I did, and I still do, though I would not call it suffering any longer. It has saved my life and that of my child more times than I can count.”

            They sat in silence for a moment, before Erestor spoke for the first time. “I was very young when my Lady took me in; I can tell you this, if it offers you any comfort. She has never tried to eat me or otherwise harm me- or anyone else in her care.”

            He nodded. “I find that it does, indeed. That being said, do you truly believe that you are ready to battle this when we are able to drive it out?”

            “Certainly, I am not!” He laughed. “If I said I was, I would be doing you a great disservice by lying. I am absolutely terrified, but I’ve been practicing everything I can to do with fire and light.”

            Glorfindel huffed in amusement whilst Erestor absentmindedly handed Galadriel another fish. Another fish was plopped onto his plate as well, and Erestor began to eat his own. “Wise choices.” They ate in silence for a few moments before Glorfindel began to tire of a question that had been annoying him. “Arta-Galadriel. You said that he was similar in power to yourself?” At her nod, he turned to the dark haired elf. “From whence does your power come, then? You are not tainted by darkness, of that I am sure, and you are too young to have gained the kind of power through age.”

            He rolled his eyes at yet _another_ comment about his age, and answered. “I am not completely elven. My mother was, but she died shortly after my majority, and revealed that she married the elf I called my father a whole three years after I was born. Mithrandir seems to think it was a rogue Maiar.”

            Galadriel nodded. “You would be wise to remove the ‘seems to think’ from that sentence, child. I can sense it too, and I would not be at all surprised. In fact, it may have been one of Aulë’s folk, with your love of fire and dwarves!”

            “You may be more than a match, indeed, then, though I confess I would worry for any poor soul fighting one of them.” At his cousin’s sharp look, he corrected, “one of us.”

            Galadriel finally addressed the horrors of the Grinding Ice, as he knew she would. He revealed the secret that he’d only told an elf now dead- at least, in this life- and she told them how she herself had become one of their kind. It had been one of her other cousins who fed her and her brothers. Brothers who were now dead or in Valinor. She then graciously answered all of his questions- questions about people whom did no acts of valor and so were unremembered by these younger elves, and what Lorien was like, and who this ‘Celeborn’ fellow was.  

            The last of the fish was gone by the time they finished trading words, and in Erestor’s case, stories of travels all across the face of Arda. He’d been to the Greenwood and Lorien, of course, but also as far east as Far Harad, as far North as the Iron Hills, south to a lovely little place he called ‘the Shire’, and everywhere in between. The deepest part of the night settled, and Glorfindel was sorry to see them go; he had not realized how much he missed people he could truly be honest with. At one point in this new life, that could have been anyone. Now, he would have to be more careful with his choices. When he went to bed later on, it was with a lighter heart than he’d had since he’d left for Bree that fateful day.

            Galadriel and Erestor, or sometimes only one of them, began to spend their nights with him, or invite him to join them. And so one night, he had dinner with the Lord of Imladris and his family, and was regaled with many tales of Celebrian’s childhood that had the she-elf blushing. Of course, she quickly turned on her own young ones, but there was not much about Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen that he did not know, having been in Imladris all of their lives.

            Another night, he was sequestered in the shared rooms of Haldir, Orophin, Rumil, and Erestor, playing drinking or gambling games. He learned the hard way that Rumil had no poker face, Orophin was an absolute card shark, and that Erestor could drink even _him_ under the table. And he strongly suspected that Haldir had trick dice, but they had not been playing for money, merely for fun, and so Glorfindel did not begrudge any of them.

            Almost a week after Galadriel’s confession, and a week and a half from the date of their council, Glorfindel and his men finally found the Wendigo’s hole. And with great prejudice and joy, they filled both ends of it with wood and dry leaves, and set it on fire.  They made sure to pour oils on one end so that it would run out of the other, and their brutal plan was successful. The Wendigo ran, right towards the house, and holed itself into one of the sheds. They made a great fuss about pretending to run right past it, and notified the inhabitants of the House. The door to the shed was shut, and wagons, traveler’s carts, and logs were lain down on either side, creating a fence that would, hopefully, lead the creature right to where the guards, the Lorien boys, and Erestor were waiting. Dead cattle, a potential food source, were piled in a low spot on the rise; the smell would carry to the Wendigo if the wind was right, and herald both escape and food. They built up logs, twigs, leaves, and drizzled oils over it once more, behind and on all sides of the shed except for the front, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, they set it on fire.

            The trap had been set.


	9. Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some legends say that a powerful shaman can exorcise the evil spirit from the person the Wendigo has possessed. Some say there is no redemption for the person at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Title taken, unashamedly, from Gandalf in Moria. This is the chapter that I added the tag of 'character being eaten alive' for, so if you're squeamish, I don't recommend reading this. Story-typical violence throughout. 
> 
> Erestor finds his quest. Please let me know what you think! We still have another chapter or two to go.

                At sunset, Glorfindel and his warriors set fire to the wood around the shed, and as predicted, the Wendigo bursts through the wood. Instead of going straight to the food, away from the fire, and to Erestor, however, it tears through the right side of the shed, which has already been weakened by the flames. Immediately, Haldir hits it directly in the shoulder where it was wounded by an Elven arrow previously, and Orophin fires off several shots, missing all but one in the leg. Rumil and the guards who accompanied Galadriel previously fire as well, but they are shooting uphill, and the wind has brought smoke to their eyes. There is the terrible sound of crashing, and screams, and Glorfindel realizes with dawning horror that it is _in the Last Homely House._

                He is unaware of calling out an order, but he must have, as the Imladrian guards who were to provide a barrier are following it in, and the archers from Lorien are following them from the barracks. Glorfindel finds himself somewhere in the middle; when they enter, there are panicked elves, and there is blood on the ground and walls. It has headed to the Eastern Wing, then. The blood is everywhere, so there is a possibility that it has went to the Western as well, but he listens to Laurefindel this time. He calls orders even as he runs- one group split into four to evacuate the citizens, another group to hunt down the Western Wing, and the other to follow him. They split into smaller and smaller groups with each successive hallway- he’s never realized how labyrinthine Imladris is. He hears a scream begin again, and finds the doors to the council chambers have been torn from their very hinges.

                He has a moment to think: ‘ _Who would be in there?’_ But Laurefindel already knows- he can smell Barad from here, and it is then that he remembers the other elf promising to oversee the evacuation from the council rooms, where it would be safe. He sprints through the open door, casting his gaze around rapidly. And then he no longer has time to think because the Wendigo has its’ face buried in Barads’ gut, and the elf who is still alive enough to blink at twitch at least finally goes still. It dawns on him that he has just watched his closest friend- his first since he was reborn- die in what is probably the most painful manner to do so. He feels sick, but removes his trusty blade- this one is his own hunting knife, coated with silver, not the small, flimsy silver ceremonial thing he used in Bree- and advances quietly.

                He is no more than three paces away when the Wendigo stops its’ noisy eating for a brief, nigh unnoticeable, moment.  It continues its’ rapid tearing and swallowing of organs and flesh, forelimbs and face still buried in his friends’ body, and Glorfindel carefully moves a little farther forward, knowing he needs to get as close as possible. Rage and caution fight within him, and finally the instinctive urge for revenge wins over the tactical need for a quick kill. Snarling, he jumps upon the beast, stabbing downward toward its’ exposed side, but it is ready for him and twists to throw him off. Suddenly, he is on his back with an angry Wendigo atop him. He’s managed to keep his grip on his knife and stabs upward, slicing into its’ right forearm. It rears its’ head back with an enraged scream, and Glorfindel releases his own cry of pain when teeth clamp down on his shoulder. The teeth are long enough to go through his leather armor, and the creature wrenches its’ head from side to side, shredding through muscle and skin. Desperately, he aims a wild punch at it, and manages to get it in the throat. This forces it to let him go, but the Balrog Slayer receives no reprieve. He’s sent sailing across the stone table, and his vision goes black when his head cracks against a pillar.

 

 

 

                The house is in chaos, Erestor knows. There is no one to ask for directions, and so he casts his thoughts out, as his wise teacher once taught him to do, and seeks something bad. That isn’t clear enough, it seems, for him, and so he thinks of the things that Galadriel and Glorfindel’s thoughts both have in common. The dark, savage part missing in every elf is in both of them- and there is one in this place which has no light, calm part to balance it out. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rumil and Orophin head towards where Haldir is stationed, but some part of him urges him for speed. When he loses track of Glorfindel’s mind, and the Dark One’s mind is full of triumph, he runs into the Eastern Wing as fast as he can. He runs past soldiers trying to find their captain, past a lieutenant calling them all to the Western side of the house to help with the evacuation, and then to a part of the house he’s never seen before.

                He is running blind, dependent entirely on his magic- and on the sometimes scattered droplets of blood on the floor and walls. Erestor finds himself thankful for his years of travelling the wilds and his Galadhrim training when he is able to stop just before the broken doors of the council room  and enter in perfect silence. He swallows when he sees it- it’s hunched over, close to eight feet tall, blood covering its’ face, hands, and naked torso. It’s crying out in bestial joy, and the sound it creates makes him shiver. There are a multitude of scars across the emaciated body, and he fights the urge to gag at both the dead elf on the floor and the scent. His blood runs cold when he sees just what the Wendigo is screaming over.

                Glorfindel is lying prone on the ground, brow wrinkled in pain, and Erestor cannot tell if his chest is moving or not. The golden lord looked almost as if he were merely at rest with a nightmare- but the blood about his head and from a tear in his shoulder makes it clear; he is not asleep. He is wounded, possibly dying, and he startles the monster by crying out a few words. Fireworks. They aren’t his most powerful fire spell, not by a long shot, but he cannot risk anything more powerful. Not whilst Glorfindel is there; if the Wendigo moves in time, he might be hit.

                The Wendigo doesn’t, and its’ scream turns from elation to agony as its’ fur is burned from its’ skin. It leaps at him, blind with its’ agony, and knocks him aside. ‘ _This is a living creature.’_ He reminds himself. And it deserves a chance at redemption, whatever his heart may think. He delves into its’ mind, and the beast freezes.

                Perhaps the battle of wills lasts for a few seconds. Perhaps it lasts for a day- Erestor cannot say. But it saps every reserve of power from him, and with one last push, he succeeds. There is a hitch in both his breath and that of the Wendigo, and then the evil spirit is cast out, down into the depths of Utumno, or wherever it came from. He stumbles forward as the elf it had possessed collapses; every wound on its’ body is re-opened all at once. The once-ellon is probably dead by the time he hits the ground. There is a loud crash, and he realizes he’s accidentally set most of the wooden furniture- including several support beams- on fire, as well as the Wendigo. He leans heavily on his spear and limps as best he can to Glorfindel’s still-prone form. Erestor feels the room lurch- or perhaps it is just him- and the next thing he knows, he’s on top of the elf. A heartbeat after that, and he knows no more.


	10. Silent Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Erestor faces a choice- as does Glorfindel. Mentions of non-con: Glorfindel debates pulling a Haran and turning Erestor into a Wendigo. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think.

                Life, slowly, returns to normal in the valley- at least for the brunt of Imladrians. People go back to their homes and villages; the winter is harder than normal, but they survive well enough. About a week after the final attack, Glorfindel rises from his bed in the healing halls, with only a scar on his left temple, a set of toothmarks in his right shoulder, and some burns on one leg to show for his pain. It doesn’t work that way for Erestor, though.

                Galadriel says it may have taken too much out of him, Elrond says only time and care can tell, but either way, Erestor is still and quiet on his bed in the healing halls. His eyes are closed, and the only signals that he’s still alive at all are the slow heartbeat and deep breathing. Glorfindel feels partially responsible.

                Barad’s wife and children tell him that it wasn’t his fault, just before they make for the Havens to sail, but he doesn’t know for sure. Maybe he couldn’t have _saved_ him, but he shouldn’t have felt so much hunger for the body on the floor.

                Galadriel, Celebrian, and Elrond tell him the same, both about Barad and Erestor. Glorfindel isn’t sure about that either. If he’d fought harder, faster, he could’ve killed it before Erestor even came into the room. And he would’ve been fine.

                His cousins- though Haldir, Rumil, and Orophin are more like brothers- don’t blame him either, and that hurts the worst. The golden warrior feels as if he has failed, and this failure without punishment is killing him. Though, he thinks as he looks upon Erestor’s still, pale body, maybe he is being punished after all. Only, in this case, his punishment has damned another, and not only himself.

                After the end of the month, however, Galadriel and Elrond are not so content with time to do the work. Elrond continues feeding him healing herbs and teas, but he increases the concentration and the number of times per day he spoons the liquids, teaspoon by teaspoon, in between unmoving lips. Galadriel tries contacting him, day after day, but his mind is unresponsive.

                And then, one day, it isn’t, and he sees his cousin nearly weep. She speaks with him telepathically for many hours after that, and calls Elrond, her daughter, and him into the War Room.

                “He will survive.” She reveals, to their delight. “But it has come at a cost. His body cannot last for the time it will need to recover. Not on its’ own.”

                She meets Glorfindel’s eyes, and suggests the remedy in private first. And again, Glorfindel thinks that he deserves punishment, not a reward. Her mouth turns downward, but as he did not outright refuse, she speaks aloud. “He needs to enter a bond with someone. Preferably someone with their own abilities to read minds, as it would be necessary to speak with him first.”

                They argue for a while, though Glorfindel is mostly silent, and Galadriel leaves that very day, promising to return if she could find something- _anything-_ else.

                A little over a month later, and Glorfindel is debating on obeying Laurefindel’s suggestions of doing exactly what Hráva did to him so long ago. He is just as still and quiet as he was before, but his cheeks have become hollowed out, and only Erestor’s request- mentally, of course- for him to either survive or die as an elf keeps him from doing it. Galadriel returns with a list of things that might work. The list is, sadly, short, but they try all of the items from burning white sage in the room to a tincture of pig’s blood and lavender, but there is nothing. The pig’s blood only makes him more ill, the sage stops his breathing until Glorfindel throws it out of the window and sets to pushing on his chest to make the young elf breathe once more, and everything the try, if it does not do harm, does _nothing_.

                They have one option left. And only one. So Glorfindel speaks with Erestor again, then Galadriel and Elrond do, and they leave for the night. The next morning, Erestor makes his choice- to starve to death, for Elrond to slip him something poisonous to speed his way, or become the mate of a monster.

                Spring comes to the valley, but Glorfindel feels cold, as if he has swallowed chunks of ice.

                It drains her, badly enough to the point of nearly collapsing herself, but Galadriel, bolstered by Elrond’s own inner strength and that of the rings they both bear, bring Erestor into wakefulness. It cannot be done often, and will only last for a few hours, but it is time for Erestor to make his choice, and Glorfindel’s as well. For he has decided that if he cannot save the creature who has become more precious to him than the water he drinks or the food he eats, he will try and sail, or he will throw himself into battles that even he has no hope of winning. Eventually, he will leave this land or die, he knows, but if his foolishness during the attack has doomed Erestor, he has determined that it will doom him as well.


	11. Choices are not always easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never trust that there is only one Wendigo; they are often like vultures, circling above a carcass, and just like vultures, they may flock in groups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Only one or two more chapters! Please let me know what you think. Hmm, what do you think Erestor chose?

                Clearly exhausted, Galadriel and Elrond, supported by Celebrian, Elladan, and Elrohir, leave the room. Arwen has sat herself on the left side of Erestor’s bed- she has taken care of the prone figure when her father is busy with patients he can actually save, and so has become rather fond of him. Glorfindel wishes she could have met the wisecracking, gambling, traveler who had enough kindness in his heart to love a monster, become friends with one, and even show one pity- to his great detriment.

                Rumil and Haldir are perched on the cot on the left side of the room; this is where Glorfindel sleeps, more often than not now. Galadriel has said that Erestor needs someone to talk to at any time because he can’t _tell_ time, and so he, Elrond, or Galadriel are always in the room. Haldir has been pacing for the longest time, until Galadriel told him to sit or leave. He found himself a chair, put it just inside of the doorway, and is still sitting there even now.

                Glorfindel sits on the other side of the bed from Arwen; they both have one of Erestor’s hands in their own, and so it is they who notice when Erestor first begins to wake. It takes a few moments for twitches in the very tips of his fingers to move to his wrist, and, eventually his eyes. He is too weak to sit up on his own, and so Glorfindel moves him easily enough.

                Immediately, his cousins are upon him. They only speak for a few moments before Galadriel calls for them, and for her granddaughter. Arwen, for her own part, greets the sleeping beauty she has cared for with a smile and a friendly kiss on the brow that Laurefindel wants to tear her apart for.

                ‘ _We like Arwen. Stop.’_ It had become almost a habit to refer to himself in his thoughts as ‘we’ when speaking with Laurefindel. The Wendigo had calmed down quite a bit, but he had been forced to go hunting regularly to appease it. The citizens of Imladris were quite happy with him, of course- not only was the Warg threat almost gone, but nearly every week, they had some sort of meat on the table, be it venison, wild boar, or the wild steppe goats which were the bane of every farmer and had horns that could easily kill an elf. It was the fur of a great bear which had torn apart several elves and had strange white liquid dripping from its’ mouth which Erestor was covered with now, and the elf dug his fingers into the long brown and black fur.

                ‘ _Ours. She can leave him alone or die.’_ The response is, in typical Laurefindel fashion, laconic and unforgiving. He’d followed his cousins advice in this as well, and had managed to convince it- or himself- that the entire population of Imladris was an extended sort of pack. Now, unless he skipped a meal or two, he very rarely had any urges to eat one of the Imladrian elves. The same did not go for the elves from Lorien- including Erestor’s cousins. Laurefindel was _not_ a fan of how protective Haldir was, or how the three of them took the liberties of touching _their_ mate. All Glorfindel could do was remind the Wendigo that Erestor wasn’t his mate, and so he had no rights in the matter. Laurefindel, to say the least, was most dissatisfied.

                “How long-“ Erestor’s weak, raspy voice broke off with a few rough, dry coughs, and Glorfindel hurriedly poured a glass of water from the pitcher by his bed. Erestor whispered an appreciative ‘thank you’, and was silent for a moment. “How long have I been unconscious?”

                Glorfindel reached out and soothed a wrinkle from a pale brow. “This is the end of the second month- we’re in the middle of Spring, now.”

                Erestor sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back on the pillow. “I suppose it’s time, isn’t it?” He asked, almost regretfully. Glorfindel felt a stab of pain- it was _his_ folly which forced Erestor to make this choice; he should be the one punished, not Erestor. “Shut up.” The dark-haired elf mumbled, eyes still closed. “Thinking too loud.”

                Glorfindel chuckled, suitably chastened, and held one of those too-pale hands once more. They’d been tanned by sunlight when the younger elf had first came here. “Aye, it is time. There is another option. I know it’s not one you like, but-“

                “No.” He snapped firmly, opening his eyes and staring right into Glorfindel’s. “I said I would live or die as an elf, and I intend to.”

                The golden-haired elf nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind an ear. He almost missed Erestor’s whispered confession. “I don’t want to die.”

                He brushed his lips against Erestor’s knuckles and then rested his head on them. “You don’t have to.” He returned. “There may be another chance, but I’m not sure you would like that one either.”

                Erestor raised an eyebrow, and Glorfindel responded to the unasked question. “There’s a spell- I found it when going through the healing section of your book. I hope you don’t mind.” He tacked on quickly, relieved when Erestor shook his head. “Good; I was trying to find something, anything- and I did. I think it was in there to drain some sort of magical energy to use for spells? It’s a-“

                “Absolutely not!”  He snapped, and this time managed to sit up again on his own. “That would _kill you,_ and I will not do that.”

                They were silent again, Erestor likely trying to decide what he wanted to do, when Glorfindel whispered, “I bet my cousin could force the spell. It’d be quick- maybe not, but I don’t mind. And it might not kill me, we don’t know what sort of affect it has on my kind.”

                The adam’s apple in his throat worked for a second, and Glorfindel hoped he’d reconsider. His hopes were dashed. “I can’t- do you understand what that would do to me?”

                He mentally cursed his cousin; what had she been thinking to send someone so pure here? He would be unable to take the action that could save his life and allow him to, one day, find a mate that he actually wanted. “It would hurt, I know. But I have died once, and I am not afraid to die again.” ‘ _For you._ ’, and the thought went unsaid.

                “I am sorry.” Erestor whispered. “Very, very sorry. But I cannot do that. I need to know this- are you willing to let Elrond do this darker work? For I am unwilling to slowly die or to kill something not trying to kill _me_ to survive.”

                “Would that help?” He growled, allowing Laurefindel a little control- enough to dig suddenly sharp fingernails into a pale wrist. “If I tried to kill you, would you be able to save yourself?”

                Erestor simply stared, and Glorfindel looked away- that case peered into his very soul, seeing not just the face he showed, that of Glorfindel, but the hidden, darker one. And it did not hate him, which Glorfindel did not understand. “If that is what you need, I will let him. But do not think I will not follow soon after; I find that I have grown attached.”

                Attached. That was too simple a word for what Glorfindel felt, but he did not know yet if it was love, for it was overshadowed by guilt.

                There was a long, low sigh, and he turned his head to see Erestor observing him with a fond sort of half-smile on his face. Glorfindel couldn’t help but return it- this was the Erestor of two months ago, not the sick and dying elf he’d laid down next to like a dog waiting for its owner.

                “I’m not sure either of us will be too happy with what I have chosen; but something tells me it might have happened anyway.” There was something mournful in that tone, and so Glorfindel bowed his head, quiet and still. They sat that way for a little while, until he asked Glorfindel to get Elrond, or Galadriel- whomever was going to bear witness to what would happen. With a heavy heart, Glorfindel left.  


	12. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I tried to write a good smut scene with this one, but I just couldn't make it flow right. Sorry. So, in this chapter, I play with your heartstrings! Please let me know what you think; I intend to do at least one more chapter as an epilogue of sorts. There is sort of a non-con moment that's actually consented to towards the end due to being forced into marriage. This particular chapter is from Erestor's point of view- I thought it was high time to give him a voice.

                Barely a week later, there are many tears and much talk flowing through the valley. Erestor sits, once more still and cold, only now staring out of Glorfindel’s window. The rooms will soon be _theirs_ , but he does not feel the joy he knows he should. He isn’t _dying_ , or turning into something dark, both those things are true, but it feels as if he is going to his own execution instead of his wedding. He and Glorfindel have spoken of this, and though it is highly irregular and neither truly _want_ this, they will be wed. Today. And tonight, they will be bound.

                He knows he should be glad- there were many arranged marriages in Eregion and the Greenwood, and often the couples did not know or even hated one another. Not only does he know his husband-to-be, but even considered him a friend. His stomach turns again when he sees Glorfindel, who tries to put on a brave and happy face, but fails to hide a lingering grimace. There is the lingering thought of their conversation in the room of the healing halls, and he feels something crack inside of him; Glorfindel had offered to die rather than this. And through his own weakness, he had taken that from him.

                Someone from Lorien had forwarded him his letters, and he had only recently wept tears and black ink- black as his hair, black as his depression- onto pages in the runes that the dwarves used. “You can visit, if you want.” Glorfindel offers quietly, shutting the door behind him. The golden warrior knows- or at least suspects- where his thoughts have gone. “I will not stop you, once you have recovered.”

                He nods and whispers his thanks. Glorfindel sighs and takes a seat next to him. “You know, I was arranged to be married back in Gondolin?” He asks, not looking at him.

                “No, I did not know that.” He responds coolly and hates himself for it. He’d been more comfortable when he had no idea whether Glorfindel would _eat_ him or not that first night than he was now. But Glorfindel, cursed though he is, does not deserve his ire. “I apologize- this situation makes me anxious.” Anxious- not a good word to describe him, but it will do well enough for now.

                “’Tis fine, Erestor.” He answers, and sighs. “I was always meant to be married to someone I did not know or care for; I am thankful at least I know and care for you.” His voice is soft, softer than Erestor thought it could be. “I can only hope-“ His jaw tenses, and again Erestor is reminded that neither of them wants this. This should be a happy day; it is a day of tears, and he feels that he should be wearing a mourning shawl instead of fine robes. “I can only hope,” he continues, voice rough, “that one day, you will share the same regard. And maybe- one day- we can be happy.”

                Erestor swallows. “I do care for you, Glorfindel, do not doubt that. It’s just-“ He heaves his own sigh and wraps his arms around too-thin legs. “I never thought of being married, and it seems so strange to wed someone that I have not even met the parents of!”

                Glorfindel laughed bitterly. “Well, we shall have to sail for that. My mother fell through the Ice, my father slain at Alqualondë. And I believe we should have to sail to meet yours as well, yes?”

            The dark-haired elf nodded his assent. “Aye. Mother would have been reborn in Valinor or still in the Halls of Waiting, as would be the elf I call my father. As to the one who actually fathered me- I have no idea.”

            Glorfindel exhales slowly through his nose, and offered Erestor his hand. “I cannot fulfill that- I know not if my kind _can_ sail. But know that if you wish to, I shall not blame or condemn you.”

            “Thank you.” He returned, knowing that if he did, he would blame himself. He took the offered hand. “I take it we will begin soon?”

            “Yes.” He answered, and they stood staring at one another, hopeless blue meeting despairing silver. After a moment, Erestor reached up to perform some small adjustment or two, and they plastered on fake smiles for the enjoyment of the populace. A wedding in Spring- a new life after so much death- was something many wished to attend.

            Erestor ran the vows they had decided on through his head as they smiled and waved whilst they walked to the Hall of Fire. The rain, Erestor felt, was only fitting. Perhaps, as Glorfindel had suggested, Elrond found this situation just as saddening as they both did, and the turmoil in his own heart caused the rains to pour.

            The Hall of Fire was filled with cheerful, smiling elves- to Erestor, it was _hideous_. They walked to the far end, where Elrond was there, wearing a sad sort of half-smile next to a Celebrian whose eyes were suspiciously red. They separated then, Glorfindel standing next to the twins, Erestor taking much comfort from his mentor who embraced him gladly. She wept as well, and so he felt no shame in allowing his own tears to fall. Haldir, pale and sad and broken for his failure to protect the charge he’d begun to think of almost as one of his own brothers, took his arm. Haldir and Galadriel escorted him the rest of the way; a king could not want for a finer escort! The twins, resplendent in their finery, walked aside Glorfindel. Arwen entered through the back entrance then, and curtsied before handing a box to her mother.

            “People of Imladris!” Elrond called, and his voice was deep and rolling like the thunder outside. “Today, you are witness to what should be a joyous event. The marriage of our very own Captain Glorfindel, and the wizard-” Ah yes, he had finally earned that title. He would have gladly abandoned it, been content to be no more than a powerful hedgewitch, had he know what would happen. “Erestor of Lothlorien.” There was cheering, and Erestor tried his best to smile once more. He wondered if he was failing as miserably as he thought he might.

            There were more titles- it had to be said, more on Glorfindel’s side than his- and then the ceremony truly began. Erestor offered his left hand as Glorfindel offered his right, and they were bound by a multi-colored rope. Blue, for loyalty and wisdom. Red, for love and passion. Green for growth, healing, and if one of them had been female, fertility. Gold, for Glorfindel’s house. Black for Erestor’s native clan in the Greenwood, that of the wolf.

            Celebrian presented a cup of wine with the traditional blessings- a happy house, wealth, and joy- and they both drank. Hands still tied, the dancing and feasting began in the main halls. Despite himself, he supposed he enjoyed the dancing, and the evening itself was quite pleasant. Neither were in a rush to return to the rooms they would henceforth share, but they left into the cool night air anyway.

            Glorfindel’s rooms- which, he supposed, were _their_ rooms now- were situated in the western hall, thankfully, and not too far from the family wing. Glorfindel carried him across the threshold as custom dictated, and shut and locked the door behind them. They did not fall to the passion that would lead to a bond, however, not immediately. Glorfindel cut them free of the ribbons, which Erestor sat on a bookshelf, and whilst the blonde ran a bath for them both, Erestor started a decent fire.

            The windows were closed to the night, curtains as well to impede Elven hearing, and taking a very long, deep breath, he joined his husband in their bathing chambers. Though there was no heat in their touches or gazes, they bathed one another with care before leaving once more. Only then, in the deepest part of the night, did they speak once more.

            “We do not have to do this tonight.” Glorfindel offered. “Often, in these sort of things, it would be a few weeks or months, even, before a consummation.”

            He swallowed. “Thank you for your consideration- but we do not have weeks or months. It is best to have this done, I suppose.”

            Glorfindel grit his teeth, and thanks to the familiarity they had gained in the healing halls, Erestor could hear some of Laurefindel’s… _darker_ urges. Glorfindel was willing to give him as much time as possible; in Laurefindel’s mind, Erestor was his and needed to be claimed. He inhaled sharply, tense as a bowstring, and sat down on the bed, hands tangling in plush furs. _‘_ _I agreed to this.’_ He reminded himself, and forced himself to think on other things- any other things.

            He was not successful, and after a moment of tension, Glorfindel pushed some of the furs from his part of the bed and sat down on the side nearest the door. Eventually, they slept.

            It was not until the next day that they mated. For once, they were both warm under the cloth blankets and furs, wrapped up in one another. Most of the day had been spent snacking on the food generously left in front of the door and speaking of anything and everything that came to mind. Somehow, they ended up undressed, and let instinct take them from there.

            Now, they were speaking in hushed undertones, as if any would care to listen. They’d settled on this, eventually: Glorfindel’s rooms were barely comfortable for one elf, much less two. They’d request wedded couple housing afterwards, or settle in one of the many now-empty cottages. Only one elf in the city of Imladris had died, miraculously, but many of the families of those brave enough to head to Bree in first place left in droves.

            He wasn’t _happy_ , no. But right now, he was content, and that, he believed, would have to do. Perhaps one day they would love one another, or perhaps Erestor would grow too sorrowful to stay and sail, but that would wait for another day.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Khazad Dum fell in T.A. 1981, and Erebor was founded in T.A. 1999. Imladris was founded before the fall of Khazad Dum and after the Last Alliance. During this time, Thranduil became King of the Greenwood, and brought them into a period of isolation, due to his feelings of betrayal by Gil-Galad and all Noldo in general. 
> 
> In T.A. 2510, Celebrian sails due to the breaking of her spirit by her rape and torture by orcs. The ending of this is in T.A. 2100 or roundabouts. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me, all of my lovely readers! Look out for a sequel- Wendigo II: Shadows of the Past. It's going to answer a lot of questions- who Erestor's father is, what really happened with the Wendigo on the Grinding Ice (remember, most of this is from Glorfindel's point of view, and he can't remember a lot of things), and, of course, what a lot of you may have been wondering- if Galadriel is a Wendigo, what does that mean for Celebrian, Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir?

            “Glorfindel? What are you doing?” Erestor asked in apparent amusement. Immediately, Glorfindel stopped where he’d been scratching his back against a post of their cottage. It was a pretty little thing- it had a combination study and lounge room just inside the door, with two chairs on the porch. There were two bedrooms- they had given the excuse of possible company, but in reality it was more in case they did not want to share their bed- and a bathing chamber. It had grown in leaps and bounds since then, when one or the other- or in some cases, both of them, found a new thing they wanted to try. During the daytime hours, the wide yard was often a spot where elves would play or read, and in the spring and summer- and the more daring or foolish- in winter, many would swim through the river instead of taking one of the many bridges. After their seventeenth try, they decided that bridge building was not for them, and left it to the experts, so there was a white-washed curved bridge, which lanterns could hang from after dark and often sported wreathes of flowers instead.  
  
            The two of them had decided early one to have some separate activities, even here, in case they became too tired of one another. To that end, there was an attached smokehouse and tannery (they had both learned those skills, largely through trial and error) for the prey Glorfindel often brought back. Additionally, Erestor had put great time and effort into a garden which bloomed with more than they could eat (despite their words a while ago, Glorfindel found it just as soothing as he did); much of it was given away. In a fenced off area, there were plants which should not come in contact with curious elflings or animals, and were used to create antidotes for toxins as well as for spells. As a joke, he’d planted peppers there as well- Glorfindel swore that the spice was terrible beyond reckoning. He was unsure if this was a personal taste or something unique to Wendigo, however, as many elves did not like spicy food, and Galadriel was notably offended by it. Still, with only two known test subjects, he couldn’t be sure.  
  
            After three centuries, the other bedroom was used for only company- though more commonly, for extra storage. And whilst early on, the behavior had sickened him, Erestor now found Glorfindel attempting to ‘subtly’ mark his territory (and he meant subtly in the most sarcastic way possible) quite amusing. In most cases, the Wendigo in question wasn’t even aware he was doing it.  
  
            There was a soft ‘thunk’ as his head hit the wooden post, and he groaned. Erestor snorted at him and shut and locked the door behind him. Most places in Imladris did not have locks- they simply didn’t need them. The exceptions, of course, were the treasury, armory, and wine cellars. The latter two were almost solely to keep curious young ones from being cut on a sharpened blade, or in the rather infamous hide and seek game a few years ago, stuck in the cellar. The doors had been thick- but not too thick for the ears of a Wendigo, and several hours later, Glorfindel had shown up in the hall of fire with a pair of filthy elflings, one on each shoulder, and the young ones in question had a very long lecture from their parents.  
  
            In the case of their home, the locks were for a two-fold reason. Not only did they help assuage a bone-deep fear that the golden elf would go mad and start killing without warning- the breaking of the door would certainly cause noise- but (and this is what they told others when asked), Erestor had quite a few books of magic, several of which had spells which, if uttered, could cause great damage to a reader who was untrained in the magical arts.  
  
            They had a horse- well, _Glorfindel_ had a horse- but Asfaloth XVII (Glorfindel said the only two horses he hadn’t named Asfaloth met messy ends, and so always named them that for luck) enjoyed a stall at the stable and often the fields. He was getting on in years- it was time to pick Asfaloth the XVIII- and so also enjoyed the company of several mares, as he was a fine specimen of a horse.  
  
            As times changed, and the mortals he knew slowly but inexorably fell to the ravages of time, Erestor found himself spending more time in the valley and less time- almost everywhere else on Arda. He often yearned for adventure across oceans, but fear of hearing the Call kept him land bound and away from coastal areas. Still, once every fifty years, like clockwork, Imladris’ ambassador left with a small retinue of guards, scribes, and merchants, usually to the new kingdom of Erebor, the resplendent _Khazad_ - _dûm_ , or the Iron Hills, and passing through every Elven realm along the way. He also had these regular visits to human kingdoms such as Gondor, and in one rare case which had ended very badly, to Rhun. Often, he would be gone for a decade or more, giving him some much-needed time away from the valley.

            Often, Glorfindel would accompany him to Lothlorien, the Greenwood, and other realms close by or that they were in peaceful relations with, but was unable to follow farther due to his duties as Captain. They had argued, long into many nights, about this most recent trip due to the fall of _Khazad_ - _dûm_ , which was now known as Moria- Erestor had brought news of it, having just barely escaped. Glorfindel felt, rather understandably, that Erestor should stay where it was safe and take the position which Elrond offered, that of Chief High Councilor.

            Erestor had, as always, cited his wanderlust and offered his advice when requested, and offered to stay, if ordered by Elrond, but Elrond had always laughed at the curiosity of youth and the conversation would be dropped for another 50 years. He strongly suspected that Glorfindel was the one who kept bringing it up to Elrond, but had no solid proof.

            This time, however, was quite different. The Lady Celebrian had gotten tired of the golden Lord’s attitude, which she compared to ‘a cranky child’ when he left, and was sending him as the head of Erestor’s guard.

            Due to tensions in The Greenwood, they would skip that as well, though an invitation was sent to the new King, Thranduil. Erestor had resided in The Greenwood during the long years in which Oropher ruled as King, and Thranduil was but an ever-laughing Prince. Privately, he’d thought that the invitation would be ignored or rather rudely turned back to them; he’d been correct, and so they would go through Isengard, visit Gondor, then return through the Gap of Rohan, hopefully for some good breeding stock. Fangorn, then Lorien would follow, and they would go the long way around the Greenwood- which was being called more and more often Mirkwood- to Erebor and the Iron Hills. Then, they would return the way they came; the entire trip would take nigh a decade, for they intended to spend some time in each place before returning and to take pains to avoid the Black Land itself.

            Azanul had died in Khazad-dûm, but his sons and grandchildren still resided in the Iron Hills. The letters they’d exchanged had been nothing but kind, though understandably mournful at first, and they seemed to want to meet him as much as he was interested in meeting them. Though he did not bring this up to Elrond, he privately thought this was slightly cruel to Glorfindel- they all knew well that Glorfindel _hated_ ice and snow, which would be prevalent in the mountains, and so Erestor privately planned to leave him in Lorien with the Lady Galadriel, her husband, and his cousins.

            Glaring at the remains of one of the pitiful bridges as they passed (and steadfastly ignoring Glorfindel’s snickers), they left. Glorfindel, however, remained a little behind, musing on dreams that had most certainly been resurgences of his long-forgotten memories, and wondered if going over the mountains was truly such a wise idea.

            Gondolin had truly been a city of the doomed- but it was not known as that only for its’ fall. It was with this unsettling thought that he left, comforting himself with the fact that his mate hadn’t run into any of his kind during his travels _before._ This did little- most of their entire _race_ had forgotten about them, as they were only seen when they wished to be. Quietly and quickly, he saddled his most recent Asfaloth, and picked a horse for his mate- it was not one of the slow but sturdy horses Erestor would usually have picked. But this horse- also an old warhorse- could _run_ _._


End file.
